Synchronicity
by Authoressinhiding
Summary: Dean Winchester only knows one person as screwed up as he is. She calls herself a vampire slayer. But wait, aren't vampires extinct? Set pre-SPN, post-BtVS. Faith and Dean friendship-centric.
1. First Impressions

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing in this fic except for the dialogue and the plot. Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke.

**A/N: **Synchronicity is the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection. In other words, meaningful coincidences. This story is about Faith Lehane and Dean Winchester, from their first encounter onwards. Begins one month after the fall of Sunnydale. Currently more or less plotted up through SPN season 10.

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><p><strong>May 2003, Los Angeles<strong>

In terms of interpersonal relationships, you might say it had been quite an eventful week, Faith reflected, wishing that thought smacked a little less of bitterness. You helped to save the world, and what did you get? Bupkis. Or, in other words, confinement with five or six of the people you found most annoying in the world.

You'd think, wouldn't you, that spending a week in Disneyland and Hollywood on the Watcher's Council's dollar would be fun. Catch some rays, meet some nice weirdos in chipmunk costumes. You'd think it would be a blast. Faith had certainly hoped so.

Once the smoke all cleared around the giant crater formerly known as Sunnydale, she'd been in half a mind to run. Running, Faith was beginning to realize, was a prominent theme in her life. Run where? That, she didn't know. She never really knew. Back to Angel in L.A., back to jail, with three squares and a movie and rules that made sense, back to Boston to find her deadbeat parents? She was screwed up, and she was lonely, and she was effing tired of living in Buffy's shadow, hanging out with Buffy's friends.

That was why Disneyland had blown so hard. The more time she spent with the remaining Scoobies and newly activated Slayers, the more she remembered why that pre-coma year in Sunnyhell had been so g-ddamn awful. The Slayerettes were annoying and insecure and constantly yammered on like a pack of Pomeranians. As for Buffy's friends, enough history of dislike lingered there to make an Everest of awkwardness. Plus, the whole thing with Robin had gone up in smoke. Faith didn't want a boyfriend, especially not one who wanted to play head games with her or mold her into something.

The only one of the whole crew that she could stand was Giles, and he was too busy making important phone calls, trying to put together a new Watcher's Council, and reestablishing his relationship with Saint Buff to pay attention to Faith. Not that she minded, really. Giles, like everybody else, had been Buffy's friend first.

So had it been the happiest place on earth? Maybe for Dawnie, who didn't seem to remember Spike, her sister's boyfriend and erstwhile babysitter, sacrificing himself for her just the week before. Not for Faith, who spent the entire week worrying over her legal status, avoiding making eye contact with Xander or Robin, and dancing on eggshells around the Buffster.

Yep, Faith definitely had to get the hell away from them, strike out on her own. She just needed a few things first: a new driver's license, $500 in cash, to not be wanted by the police, and to have an idea of where to go.

What she wanted, Faith realized, having locked herself in the bathroom of the hotel room she was sharing with three new Slayers, looking for a little alone time before the imminent partying that night, was a fresh start. She couldn't talk her way out of going out with the Scoobies and the Slayerettes, but she could keep pondering her options.

Smiling grimly at her reflection in the mirror, Faith applied a little more mascara to her already thickly coated lashes. Speaking of options... she was Faith Lehane, and if she didn't like her present company, she could always find someone new tonight. That had been a constant option since she was fifteen, and if Faith had her way, it always would be.

* * *

><p>At twenty-four, Dean Winchester was finally beginning to accept the fact that his life was a mess. He had come out to California three weeks ago to deal with a poltergeist in San Diego and had ended up staying, picking up hauntings and missing persons cases as he slowly wound his way up the coast. Nothing big or world-ending, just small salt-and-burn deals. If Dean was being honest with himself, which usually only happened in the middle of a hunt or after a sixpack of beer, he was dawdling, trying to make up his mind whether or not to keep driving up to Palo Alto. Drop in on Sam.<p>

It had been just over a year since his little brother had stormed off to Stanford after a screaming match with Dad. Dean had lost track of the number of drunken voicemails he'd left on Sammy's phone, of the number of times he or John had debated driving out to visit Sam. A year since Sam left, and a month since his dad took off on an unspecified case of his own, calling every couple of days or so.

After an encounter with the particularly vindictive ghost, who had knocked over a telephone pole nearly on top of him, Dean stopped by a bar on the east side of L.A. that he'd found the night before. It was Western themed, with wooden saloon doors that swung open, John Wayne posters on every wall, and a jukebox playing a perpetual mix of Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, and Johnny Cash. If Sammy or his dad were around, Dean would have avoided the place like the plague. On his own, since the drinks were cheap, the pool table in the back room was level, and the bartender was hot enough to have modeled for Playboy, he could put up with a little classic country.

He was partway through beer number two, and relaxation was starting to sink in. A beer and a half wasn't near enough to make Dean's head fuzzy, but it took the edges off the nasty things at the back of his mind. He could let go of Sam a little easier, stop worrying about his dad's new obsession, and inspect the group of people who had just walked in.

The girl at the front was short, blond, and generally Dean's type, but there was something pinched in her face, and she had linked arms with a guy in an eyepatch. Seriously? An eyepatch? What was this, Pirates of Penzance? Mentally shaking his head, Dean continued his survey of the newcomers. A nerdy redhead and a hot brunette followed the blond and the pirate, but they were holding hands, so they were out. The lesbian couple was trailed by a few girls with wide eyes and high-pitched voices who were glancing around the bar (and at Dean) like it was all incredibly exotic.

It was the last girl who really caught his attention. Dark hair, dark eyes, heavy amounts of eyeliner and mascara, red lipstick, skintight clothes. She followed her friends into the bar, gave the room a bored once-over, and then ditched the group to head purposefully his way. She slid onto the barstool next to Dean and held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Faith."

"Dean." Her grip, strong and callused, surprised him. He had been expecting something a little less aggressive, a little more feminine.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Faith grinned at him, brown eyes bright and friendly. She gestured to the bartender. "Shot of whiskey, please." A glance towards Dean. "Can I get you anything?"

He raised his half-full bottle. "I'm good for now, thanks. Later, though, I might take you up on that."

"I'm looking forward to that. Cheers." Faith picked up the shot glass seconds after the bartender placed it in front of her. She threw her head back and downed the whiskey in one go, then gestured for another. "So, Dean, tell me. What brings you to the City of Angels?"

Dean had picked up lots of women in lots of bars across the country, but there was something different about Faith. She didn't bat her eyelashes or comment on the size of his biceps or gaze soulfully into his eyes. She was neither naive nor predatory, but a disturbing level of direct somewhere in between. She listened to his half-truths about his family with a wry smile and, when prompted, provided a back-story just as specious as his. Within five minutes, Dean could tell that she was planning on leaving with him. Five minutes later, he had made up his mind to leave with her.

They were in no rush. After the second whiskey, Faith switched to beer, and she nursed the same bottle throughout the rest of the evening. Dean let her buy him his third beer in return for some pool lessons. She wasn't hustler material, but she was good enough to play a close game of two-on-two against the blonde and the pirate that she had come in with.

Even comfortably hydrated with alcohol, Dean could tell there was something off in the way she interacted with her friends. He couldn't quite label it exactly, but he knew Sammy would have known the specific word Dean was hunting – _searching_ – for. It hurt a little that he wasn't, and so Dean finished his third beer and went back to the bar for another.

Returning, he taught Faith some trick shots, how to bank the cue ball off the opposite edge of the table, how to use the cue to generate a last minute spin. She let him get all up close and personal, let him move her arms and stance to line up the shot right. Dean got the feeling that she was holding back for some reason, and he wondered if he needed to rethink his plans for the night.

But then someone, one of the bouncy girls, perhaps, complained to the bartender about the jukebox, and the music changed to Top 40 hits and the newest, slickest country on the radio. Faith took his hand and dragged him out onto the dance floor. This, he knew, was going to end badly. Dean had never been a dance aficionado – hell, he'd really never had time for it. The only dance he liked to do tended to be a bit more horizontal.

He tried to laughingly beg off, but the girl ignored him. She towed him to the middle of the dance floor and wrapped the arm holding a beer bottle around his neck. With a toss of her wavy brown hair over one shoulder, Faith began to sway her hips distractingly close to his. Her dancing was far more flirtatious that her conversation.

"Hey," Dean started, then noticed her eyes were shut tight. This wasn't about him, he realized, as she continued dancing with him. This was about her, or something else, and she was using him a little bit right now. What the hell. They were both going to be using each other a little bit later, and her dancing was damn sexy.

The drive back to his motel was surprisingly unawkward. Faith demonstrated the proper amount of appreciation for the Impala. Her sincere "Holy sh-t!" at the sight of the vintage black car made him laugh properly for the first time since he got to California. Even better, she didn't seem to find him any less attractive because of his slightly skeevy motel room. To the contrary, she went from zero to sixty miles an hour once the door shut, not even blinking when his revolver hit the floor along with his jeans.

Afterwards, Dean was surprised when she stayed next to him. He had received the distinct impression that she was not the cuddling type. Instead of gathering up her clothes and disappearing out the door, which he had expected, Faith propped her head up on one hand, mindlessly tracing one of his older scars – a bad encounter with a wendigo when he was fifteen had left Dean with a thick, ropy souvenir across the left side of his rib cage – with the other. She turned her head to look up at him. "Dean?"

"Yeah?" His voice was husky.

"Thanks." Faith extended her neck upwards and kissed him. Settling back down, she fell asleep in minutes.

_Women,_ Dean reflected. He would never understand them.

* * *

><p>"I know. I know. It was irresponsible."<p>

Dean woke to an empty bed and the sound of irritated whispers. He listened, eyes closed, to Faith's angry conversation with someone on the other end of her cell phone.

"B. They had you and the Scoobies. It's not like they were going to get into any trouble." A pause, and the quiet rustle of fabric sliding over skin. Ah. So she was leaving, then.

"So what if it is setting a bad example? I can't believe you're harping on about this. You're not exactly a Hallmark card for healthy relationships yourself . . . Whatever. I'll be there in half an hour. You can tell the posse to settle themselves down."

A click as she flipped the phone shut, followed by a steady stream of vehement cursing. Dean almost felt sorry for the people her invective was directed towards. Almost. He had been looking forward to round two with Faith.

"Sorry about leaving early, cowboy," Faith said to the room at large. "Thought this might go somewhere interesting."

Before he could decide whether or not to respond, footsteps padded in the direction of the door, which opened and shut quietly.

_Dammit_, Dean thought, falling quickly back into sleep. _Maybe she left her number._

When he properly woke up five hours later, however, there was no phone number to be found. Dean was unsurprised; Faith seemed like a "love 'em and leave 'em" type of girl. Still, it would have been fun.

. . . tbc . . .

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><p><strong>AN: This is my first foray into writing Supernatural and so I would really appreciate constructive criticism about characterization, particularly Dean, and writing style.  
><strong>**AiH**


	2. Good Samaritan

**August 2003, Cleveland, Ohio**

One of these nights, Dean was going to learn his lesson about excessive drinking and trying to hustle motorcyle gangbangers at pool. But not tonight. Sober, he could handle one bruiser with a hand tied behind his back. On a good day, he probably could have taken all three of them down.

Unfortunately, Dean Winchester was on the tail end of a month-long streak of bad days. He had downed almost a fifth of whiskey that afternoon before finding his way to the closest dive bar with a pool table and Poker games. A little too much attitude when trying to goad his opponent into scratching, a little too much gloating when he won $200 off their leader, a little too much eagerness to get into a fight when the bikers confronted him in the bar parking lot... Just a little less cockiness, and he wouldn't be in this alley, being held down by two bikers while their leader tried to beat him to a pulp.

A fist drove into his already sore stomach, and Dean groaned. He threw his right arm out blindly, hoping to make contact with the large man holding him on that side, but his attackers took advantage of Dean's momentum and gave him a harsh shove from the left. Dean went down on one knee, hard enough for the gravelled ground to rip through his jeans and dig its way into his skin. He choked back an expletive and slammed his left elbow backwards into someone's gut. One of the bruisers grunted in pain. Okay. That was something.

"Come on, Mike. Just finish it," growled the man on Dean's right. "This is getting annoying."

"All right, lads." Dean could hear the triumph in Mike's voice. "Watch this."

Dean tensed his abs in preparation for another blow, but Mike caught him by surprise this time with a forceful kick to the back of his standing leg. The hunter crashed down onto his other knee. Damn. Now he was really at a disadvantage.

"Time to send this little fairy back to Never Never Land," Mike continued. He stepped back around to Dean's front. "Goodnight, sweetheart," the biker crowed, drawing his fist back.

"Hey!" A woman's voice, rough and angry, from somewhere behind them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Dammit," growled Mike, but he let the blow fall anyway, coldcocking Dean with one punch. "Drop him, boys. Let's go."

The other bikers released Dean's arms, and the man fell to the ground in an unconscious heap. After a couple of kicks for good measure, they ran for the other end of the empty alley, away from the angry woman, who hadn't stopped yelling and was sprinting towards them.

She ran past the body and was halfway down the alley, intent on catching and pummeling the bikers, when a quiet voice stopped her.

"Faith. Hey, I think this guy's really hurt. Let them go."

Growling with frustration, the woman stopped and turned back to her companion, a slight young man in his early twenties, kneeling beside the body. "Andrew."

"He's unconscious. Look."

Still growling, she joined Andrew. Together, they carefully rolled the man over onto his back and lifted his torso into Andrew's lap. The young man whistled softly under his breath at the expanse of colorful bruises covering the stranger's face. He hadn't ever seen that combination of red, purple, and blue before.

"Hey, hey sir, can you hear me?" he began, shaking the man's shoulders gently, attempting to bring him back to consciousness. "Hey, hey, are you okay?"

"This isn't some dumb CPR video," the woman snapped. "Here." She slapped the man across the face, hard. "Wake up, princess."

The man moaned.

"Good. That's good," Andrew coaxed, encouragingly, "Come on. Wake up. Open your eyes and look at us. Can't have random strangers dying in the alleyway. Doesn't go down well with the tourist crowd."

"Who..." the man coughed around the words. "Who are you?"

"I'm Andrew," chirruped Andrew. "And this is Faith."

The man chuckled weakly, his eyes still closed. "I knew a Faith . . . once. Hot as hell. Tiger in the sack."

Faith's skin blanched. "Hell," she muttered under her breath. Now she knew why that bloodied face looked familiar. And, although roughened and weakened by pain, that voice wasn't something she could forget. "Move over, Andrew." She leaned over the man on the ground. "Dean? Dean from Kansas?"

Dean's eyes fluttered open. He gazed up at the woman and blinked slowly to bring her into focus. "Faith?" He asked weakly. "What're you doing here? This isn't California."

"No crap, Sherlock. Have car, will travel." She flashed him a brittle smile and then sat back on her haunches. "Well, that changes things," she addressed Andrew quietly. "We need to take him somewhere, get him cleaned up."

"No hospital," groaned Dean. "No hospital."

Faith raised an eyebrow. "O-kay… Where's your car?"

"What?"

The woman scoffed. "Like I could forget Dean the Kansas boy with the pretty face and the dangerous green eyes and the lady killer car. I'm going to send Andrew to get her, and then we are going to take you somewhere to get your face looked at. And your legs," she added, glancing down to the disturbly dark patches on the knees of his jeans. "You're soaked in blood, Cher."

"Mmm."

"Where's the car?"

"Front . . . of . . . the bar."

"Keys?"

"Pocket."

"Right. Here goes nothing." Faith bent down. It took her a moment to locate the pocket in question, given the darkness of the alleyway and the blood. Even then, she had to detangle them from a wad of gas station receipts and gum wrappers.

Dean attempted to grin, but it came out as a grimace. "Tickles."

"You wish," she replied brusquely. Ah. There they were. Free and clear. "Andrew, switch me."

Andrew held the man's – Dean's – shoulders upright, backing free while Faith slid in to take his place. Once Dean was carefully settled against her, his head propped up on her shoulder, one of her arms locked tight around his waist, Faith handed the keys to Andrew. "It's a black Chevy, Drew. Old-looking car. The kind you wished you had in high school to get girls."

"A DeLorean?"

"And this is why he never had a girlfriend in high school," Faith grumbled, sotto voce. The wounded man chuckled weakly. "Car, Andrew, now. Hurry."

"You know," she added conversationally, as Andrew's footsteps faded away and she took the time to do a visual trauma assessment on Dean, "I never fancied running into you here." Her eyes skimmed over the bruises on his face, an eye that was already starting to swell, the left arm cradled to his chest, down to the bloodied knees (picking the gravel out of that was going to be a B...) and the torn jeans.

"Could have said the same for you," Dean gasped, longing to sink back into unconsciousness. He _hurt_. Everywhere. Faith felt his body relaxing, heard his breath slowing, and she shook him.

"Stay awake, concussion boy."

"Don't have a concussion."

"You don't know that, and I don't know that, so we've got to keep you talking . . . . Looked like you were doing a pretty good job of playing punching bag back there. What happened?"

"Bad day."

"Bad day 'cause you pissed off a bunch of bikers, or bad day because they were winning?"

"Winning."

Now _that_ was an attitude Faith could sympathize with. "Yeah, a brawl suddenly becomes much less fun when you aren't the one doing the hitting. So . . . No hospital?"

Dean shook his head once, letting it flop over to the side, his nose brushing against Faith's neck. "No hospital." He inhaled noisily. "Y'smell nice."

Faith flinched, jerking her head away. "Sorry. Reflex," she explained. Where was Andrew with that car?

"Not gonna hurt you," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Cassie thought I was crazy, thought I was gonna hurt her when I told her. I wouldn't've."

Funny how people tended to spill their guts after incidents with alcohol and head trauma. "Told her what?" Faith asked, cautious. Her cynical mind whispered that this one-night stand turned Good Samaritan moment was about to bite her in the butt.

"I'm a hunter."

"Hunter as in killing Bambi's mother?" Well, that wasn't so bad. It was better than being a klepto.

Again the weak shake of the head, again the nose and the hot breath on her neck. Faith steeled herself not to react this time. "Nah. Hunt _things_."

"Oh, so like an antiquer. You hunt old-fashioned lamps and stuff. Wait . . . she was afraid you were going to hurt her because you were gonna leave her because you're gay?"she asked teasingly, trying to keep him talking. Seriously, though, she had _got_ to start asking about sexual orientation before she slept with people.

"No. Not lamps. _Things. _And not gay."

"What kind of _things_ do you hunt, Dean?"

"'M not s'posed to say. S'a secret."

It really wasn't any of her business, and she really shouldn't ask, but Faith had never been big on "should's." "I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Monster things. Ghosts. Demons. _Monsters__._"

This seemed to be Andrew's cue. The giant boat of car came purring through the alleyway, stopping five feet from them. Faith took one look at the three inches of space on either side of the Impala and instantly decided that she would be the one driving home.

"This car is oooold," Andrew announced, sounding relieved, as he climbed out of the driver's seat.

"M'baby? She's not old."

Faith started growling again. "Dean, be quiet. Andrew, get your butt over here. Help me lift him into the car."

Andrew locked his arms around Dean's back, underneath his shoulders, and lifted while Faith stood. Then, one person on each side, they raised the man to his feet. Half-carrying, half-dragging him, they managed to get Dean into the backseat of the Impala. Andrew slid in after him, charged with keeping the hunter from choking and asphyxiating on his own blood or something equally stupid, while Faith got up front.

"Where to?" she asked Andrew, a tinge of nervousness coloring her voice, fingers clenched tight around the old steering wheel.

"Apartment? Or the hospital."

"No hospital," slurred Dean.

Great. "Apartment it is." Faith shifted into first gear and carefully drove through the narrow alley. There went another of her rules: never bring a guy back to your place.

_Please don't let me crash this car_, she thought, followed by, _God, if you get me out of this okay, I am done picking up guys in bars. I swear. _

* * *

><p>Looking back, Dean was never able to fully recall the hours that followed being picked up in the alleyway. He remembered bits and pieces of Faith and Andrew bickering in quiet, urgent voices, of being supported into an elevator playing tacky Muzac, of Faith setting him down on a wooden chair and stripping him down to his boxers. If he struggled hard enough, he could catch a few more memories: a pair of concerned voices exclaiming at the bruises and scars covering his body; gentle hands tweezing the gravel out of his knees and bandaging them; a warm wash cloth wiping the blood from his face; and a glass of water and a couple of large white pills.<p>

There were other memories, too, ones that were less than pleasant: closing his eyes against the yellow electric light of Faith's kitchen; whimpering when a particularly large chunk of gravel was removed; passing out repeatedly from pain and exhaustion only to be woken by a slap across the face, or, later on, when the slaps stopped working, the pressure of small, chapped lips on his. These memories weren't brave, and they weren't manly. Well, the lips part was kinda nice ...

He remembered vaguely when it was all over at last, and Faith putting her arm beneath his shoulder and hefting him upright. For some reason, his mind chose to retain the image of looking down and seeing her hand, dirty and bloodsmeared against the white of his bandages. After that, Dean truly remembered nothing.

* * *

><p>"What are you going to do with him?" Andrew asked as Faith pulled her bedcovers up and over a half-naked, once again sleeping Dean. She shot him a Glare of DOOM, borrowed from Giles, and jerked her head towards the door.<p>

Closing the door silently behind them, Faith moved back into the dingy kitchen, its already dirty linoleum now littered with the packaging from rolls of gauze, Dean's filthy, torn clothing, and a bowl full of bloody gravel. The bowl wasn't the only thing splattered with blood; Faith and Andrew were also liberally coated with the fluid, as were half the towels in the apartment.

"And to think, cleaning day was yesterday," she muttered, gathering up the clothes.. "Andrew . . . Don't tell Robin – or anyone else – about this, okay?"

"Sure," he promised, picking up the bandage packaging and the gravel and dumping both into the kitchen trash can. "Just tell me, though – what are we going to do with him?"

Considering the question, Faith shook out Dean's clothes over the linoleum before folding them carefully: jeans, button-down shirt, and undershirt. She set his boots against the wall by the front door and draped his dark brown leather jacket over the back of her IKEA couch. Picking up the folded pile of clothing, she led the way to where the washer and dryer sat atop one another at the back of the hallway.

"This is just great," the woman grumbled as she tossed the bloody clothing into the washing machine and then pulled her long-sleeved black shirt over her head.

"What's great?" Andrew tried not to look as his boss stepped out of her jeans and added them to the pile of laundry.

"Go get the towels, Andrew."

"Oh, right."

By the time he returned, half a minute later, Faith was dressed again, this time in a faded Cleveland Browns T-shirt and ratty gray sweat pants, ready to start a load of laundry. She stuck the towels in with the rest of the bloody clothingS and punched the "start" button on the washing machine.

Faith headed back towards the living room. "To answer your question, _we_ aren't going to do anything. _I_ am going to see what Dean says when he wakes up. Not all of those injuries were caused by angry bikers. Some of 'em looked a couple of days old."

"How do you know?"

"Slayer, prison, had the living daylights beat out of me by Angelus, remember? This ain't my first rodeo."

"Speaking of rodeos . . . how did you know what his name was? Did I sense that you two had _trysted_ before?"

Barking a laugh, more tired than amused, the vampire slayer shook her head. "Dude. You cannot use tryst as a verb that way. We need to up your game, make it a little more smooth."

"_Faith_." Andrew tried frustration, and it actually worked, for once.

"Okay. Okay. Yeah, I know Dean. Met him in California after the Disneyland Nightmare Vacation. We, uh," Faith coughed discreetly. "Well, you know. Haven't heard from him since."

"What do you want from him?"

"Look, Andrew, I appreciate that you're trying to shrink my head here – G-d knows I could probably use it, but it's a little late, and I've got to come up with a convincing reason for Robin why that nest of vampires wasn't taken out tonight. What do I want from Dean? Honestly, I want him not to die in my house. He does that for me, and we're five by five."

"Faith . . . "

It was said firmly but with a smile. "Good night, Andrew. I'll call you in the morning."

Finally, after belaboring the point, the young Watcher-in-training left. Faith locked the front door behind him, sliding the bolts home on all three dead locks. You could never be too careful.

She glanced longingly around the room and grumbled. Why hadn't she thought to grab an extra blanket earlier? Too late now. Well, since Dean had all of her blankets, she would simply have to borrow his jacket. Amused by the notion, Faith lifted the leather jacket from the back of the couch. Wrapping it around herself, she flicked off the lights before curling up on the couch and setting an alarm on her chunky cell phone for an hour later. After all, someone had to shift the laundry to the dryer and make sure Dean didn't have a concussion.

All things considered, Faith wasn't too upset with the Powers That Be for bringing Los Angeles Dean back into her life. She had a feeling that he tended to make life interesting. Plus, he could wear the hell out of a leather jacket.

. . . tbc . . .

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Reviews and feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for taking the time to read!**


	3. Shop Talk

Where_ the hell am I?_ Dean wondered, his mind swimming back into real consciousness. He had woken up at least twice before in the last half hour, only to drift off again. This time, however, the hunter forced himself to open his eyes. The sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, accompanied by the realization that he wasn't wearing anything other than his underwear, did not jar him. This was not the first time Dean had woken up in some girl's bed, not entirely sure of how he got there. No, it was the bandages wrapped around his legs and chest that froze him cold.

Dean didn't hook up with chicks when he was injured; at least, not when he was injured enough to require more than a band-aid. The sympathy points were never worth the nosey questions – or the dressing down from Dad when John found out how reckless his eldest had been with the family secret.

Last night's events started trickling back, and the hunter groaned at his own stupidity. Not only had he picked a fight and lost it, but he had been rescued by some one-night fling he didn't know anything about. And, to add the final, sixth foot to the grave he'd dug himself, he had told her about monsters. Well, hopefully she thought he was just hammered.

_Time for damage control_, _you handsome son of a gun. _If there was one thing Dean could count on, it was the power of his green eyes and gleaming smile to convince women of his sincerity.

Ignoring the protests of his sore body, Dean sat up and got a better look at the layout of the room. Everything was more college-student than he would have expected, given his few hours' acquaintance with Faith. All of the furnishings coughed Target or IKEA. With one exception - a heavy cedar chest at the foot of the full bed. By the rules of wooden chests, this one contained one of three things: pirate gold, body parts, or a woman's linen dowry. Folded atop the chest was a small pile of clothes Dean recognized as his, the keys to the Impala, his gold amulet, and his cell phone placed neatly on top.

Pulling his jeans on was a slow process. Bending his knees hurt like a mother – those scrapes were going to take weeks to heal – and the material kept catching on the gauze pads taped to his knee caps. At last getting the pants up to his thighs, Dean yanked them the rest of the way on and did his fly up quickly with shaking fingers.

Getting his shirt over his head was almost as painful. There was a squeezing tightness in his chest that ached whenever he lifted his arms. At least one of his ribs was probably cracked, then. That was the last time he was going to get into it with three to one odds and no backup.

Dressing any further required too much effort, so Dean slipped on his amulet necklace and grabbed the rest of his things with one hand. Barefoot, he walked to the bedroom door and opened it slowly. Hit the head, find his shoes, thank Faith for her help, and then get the hell out of there. It should take ten minutes, tops, and then Dean would be free to locate a motel and check in with his dad. He was already looking forward to putting another one of his bad hook-up stories firmly in the past.

As so often happens, however, fate had other plans.

Dean managed to reach the bathroom unscathed. He glanced around at the shower and sink while relieving himself, noticing a distinct lack of the colorful bottles of hairspray, perfume, and strange face concoctions that tended to litter most of the women's bathrooms that he had seen. Even the hand soap, although lime green, wasn't anything special. To be honest, he kind of suspected it was Dawn jazzed up in a glass dispenser.

While drying his hands on a red-and-white striped towel (probably also Target), he practiced his best smile in the mirror, the one guaranteed to make a girl's knees buckle at twenty paces. Its effects were somewhat dimmed by the bandaged cut on his right cheekbone, but only slightly. After a quick wink at his reflection, Dean opened the bathroom door.

Letting his footsteps fall a little louder now, he wandered back into the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. It wouldn't hurt if he had a little bit of breakfast before leaving – or maybe packed up something to go.

Faith was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, a mug in her hands. She stood when he walked in. Dean took a moment to get a proper look at her. It had been a long three months since she had left him in that motel room, and last night was still fuzzy.

She was as he remembered, with a few small changes: sweat pants and sneakers instead of jeans and boots; thick brown hair in a ponytail instead of hanging loose. Still, Dean got the feeling that something else was off.

"You're awake," she said, smiling. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," Dean admitted. "Thanks for helping me out there."

"Don't worry about it. Can't leave your friends passed out in alleyways, after all. I was just glad I had some first aid training. You were pretty out of it."

"I was?"

Faith set the coffee mug down in the sink and rinsed it out. "Yep. Like my cousin Jamie after he got his wisdom teeth taken out. How's your head doing?"

The man rubbed the back of his neck, feeling somehow off-balance. "It aches a little," he admitted. "You got any tylenol?"

"Coming right up. Can I get you some coffee or breakfast or anything?"

"Just coffee, thanks. Then I'd probably better be getting on the road."

She glanced up from the ancient coffee maker. "Leaving already? You're welcome to stay a couple days."

Faced with direct scrutiny, Dean's excuses started falling apart. "I should, I've um,"

"Come on, Dean." Faith flashed him her own knee-buckling, megawatt smile. "It would be nice. We didn't really get to know each other as well as I'd hoped, last time." She handed him the coffee and tylenol, still smiling. "Besides, it'll be easier to change those bandages with two people. And technically, shouldn't concussions be watched for at least twenty-four hours?"

"Um, supervised, I think is the word."

"Even better. I'm very good at . . . supervising things," Faith said suggestively.

"I guess I could stay, uh, twenty-four hours," Dean capitulated. The hunt could wait that long. Particularly if Faith meant what she kept implying.

"Perfect! It's settled then. I'm training for a half-marathon, so I've got to go run, but when I get back, we can see about those bandages, okay? I'll pick up some more antibiotic ointment stuff while I'm out. The Internet password is somewhere on my desk, and you're welcome to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Need anything else before I go?"

He was taken aback by her perkiness. The girl he remembered from California had been friendly, but she had definitely not been this peppy. But if she was going to be gone, that would give him time to get work done. "Nope, I'm set."

"Cool. I should be back in an hour. Cheers, then." Faith grabbed a set of keys off the kitchen table and left.

After finishing his coffee and finding his boots, Dean ventured outside to check on his baby. The Impala was doing fine, and, even better, the second compartment in the trunk looked as if it hadn't been touched. Just in case, though, Dean rearranged the rest of the trunk, moving the toolbox, ice chest, and spare tire so that the latch was hidden. He hoisted his duffel bag over one shoulder and headed back into the apartment.

While the place was empty, Dean wanted to maximize his time. He found the wifi password, buried beneath a stack of mythology books, and booted up his ancient laptop. Waiting for it to load, the hunter checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing but a missed call from Pastor Jim.

Best to handle that now, before Faith got back. Dean settled himself in the desk chair and hit "return call."

"Dean!" A cheerful voice with a bit of Southern drawl answered. "Sorry to miss your call the other day. You still in Ohio?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've got . . . well, I don't really know what I've got, Jim. This isn't something I've seen before."

"Start from the beginning. What's going on?"

The hunter rummaged in his bag for a pad of paper and a pen to take notes. "So, this one neighborhood has always been quiet. Nothing weird, just urban crime and stuff. Eighteen days ago, homeless guys starting vanishing. And then last week, two local occult bookstores were robbed, and the shopkeepers have been reported missing. Three days ago, the first bodies started showing up. One of the homeless guys and both the shopkeepers were found, exsanguinated."

"Sounds like vampires."

"Aren't they extinct, though? And anyway, the bite pattern's different – these guys all have two holes in their neck, two and a half inches apart. Classic Stoker. But that's one of the biggest things that Stoker got wrong, right?"

A thoughtful noise from the other end of the line. "Well, that's something I've been looking into the last couple of days or so. Made some calls, asked some questions on chat sites. Consensus is that vampires are more of a genus than a species."

"A what?"

"Genus. You know, like you get wolves and coyotes and someone's rag tag Fluffy, and they're all technically related. Apparently, there's something of a spectrum with vampires."

Dean started sketching a flow chart with fanged canines. "So, what – the vamps we're used to hunting are the wolves, the Stoker ones are the coyotes?"

"Yep. Sounds like it."

"Awesome. Any idea what works on these coyotes?"

"Holy water, stake through the heart, decapitation. The standard Stoker stuff. Not sure about the garlic. There's um," Pastor Jim coughed, "there's a certain, er, group of people who hunt these specific vampires. Slayers, I think they're called."

He added this to his list under the title _Leads_. "Slayers? Huh. Sounds ominous. Kinda slasher flick."

"Mmm. From what I've been able to find out, Slayers are typically women, and they're backed up by a research/funding group called the Watcher's Council. Used to be only one in the world, but then, a few years back, one of 'em got brought back from the dead, and then there were two. Guess they liked doubling their numbers, 'cause something happened this spring, and now there are over fifty."

"Do you know how to contact any of them? Maybe they have a pamphlet - '10 Tips on Killing Vampires' or something like that. Be nice to check in with the experts."

"I can do you one better. There's actually a group of them in Cleveland right now. I think you've actually met one of them?"

"Huh?" The pen clattered to the floor.

"Got a call this morning, from a Slayer I ran across in Alabama a few years ago. She was asking me if I knew a hunter named Dean with – quoting her here – 'Do-Me Eyes.' Reckon she'd be the best one to talk to. She goes by Faith. Last name starts with an ell, maybe."

Dean recognized the sinking feeling of his stomach falling to his toes. "Describe her for me?"

"Brown hair, doe eyes, somewhat indecent. Swears like an army sergeant and doesn't always like wearing clothes."

Yep. That sounded about right. He rubbed the back of his neck fiercely. "Yeah . . . I know her. I'm . . . uh, . . . staying at her house right now."

Pastor Jim chuckled. "Well, then. That's who you should talk to about the vampire problem. She'll know exactly what to do with it."

"Uh huh."

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

The older man was still laughing. "Good luck."

* * *

><p>Getting information out of a person was all about waiting for the right moment, something Dean considered himself an expert at. And so, he waited. He waited the duration of Faith's run, rifling through her kitchen cupboards, finding the ingredients to make homemade chicken noodle soup. He waited while the food cooked, cleaning out the nasty coffee maker. He waited throughout all of lunch, watching Faith's face, studying her behavior for any hidden clues. He waited while she trotted off the shower, leaving a trail of innuendo in her wake. Even then, Dean waited another five minutes after the water turned on before springing the trap.<p>

He knocked on the door once, waited for her cheery, "Come in!", and entered.

Dean kept his eyes on the toilet, grateful that the tan shower curtain only showed Faith's silhouette. This wasn't really a good moment for distractions.

"What's up?" Still cheerful, still flirtatious. He wondered if that was all about to change.

"So. Vampire Slayer, huh?"

The flirtatiousness disappeared from her voice. "You talk to Jim?"

"Yeah. He said you called, asked about me. Were you going to tell me?"

She answered his question slowly, pausing between sentences. "Didn't think you were in the biz until last night. And I still wasn't too sure. Can't talk shop with strangers. I was going to bring it up . . . when I figured out how to do it without you throwing me into a wall."

Huh. There wasn't much he could say to this. She made a convincing argument. "Good point. How, uh, how do you know Jim again?"

"He was taking a bus full of Baptists somewhere in Alabama when they got attacked by three vamps. Whole congregation had gone to kibbles and bits by the time I got there, 'cept your preacher friend. He was so grateful after I staked 'em that he gave me this giant hug . . . and I wasn't wearing a stitch at the time. Just then, the cops stumbled up, and I got arrested. So, guess you could say we have a _colorful_ history."

The water shut off. "Er, could you hand me a towel?"

"What, no witty remark?" Dean grabbed one of the Target towels and passed it to her, still gazing at the toilet.

She took the towel from his hand and started drying off behind the curtain. "Mmm, how's this? Take your clothes off."

A surprised silence.

"Haha, just kidding. Although, we might as well check those bandages while we're both in here."

Faith stepped out of the shower, her towel firmly in place, covering her from armpits to knees. She tapped Dean on the shoulder to get his attention. "Look, if you're hunting something in town, and this is going to turn into a business thing, we should probably get down to comparing notes and making plans. And if we're going out after the Big Bad, those scabs on your knees are going to need more Neosporin. So. . ."

Dean met her gaze. "Fancy putting some clothes on first?"

The Slayer laughed. "This distracting you?" She held her hands up in a show of innocence. The towel slipped down an inch. "Okay, okay. Clothes, here I come." She slipped out the bathroom door, returning two minutes later in jeans and a UC Sunnydale t-shirt. "Better?"

"Much." The hunter attempted to pull his shirt over his head, but stopped, wincing.

"Need a hand?"

"You have no pity, do you?"

She grinned, a smile that was all teeth and very predatory. "Sit down." A nod indicated the toilet seat.

It was easiest not to argue, so Dean sat. He forced himself to be still as she helped him with the shirt. Rolling up the legs of his jeans past the bandages proved to be impossible, and so they had to come off.

There was a difference, he was noticing quickly, between Faith the man-eater and Faith the Slayer. The first would definitely have been doing some objectifying right about now. The second only seemed to see his wounds.

"So, let's go through last night's casualties, shall we?" Faith pulled the gauze pad free from Dean's right knee. "Here. You can take care of these on your own." She set a wet washcloth, the antibiotic ointment, and a fresh box of jumbo-sized band-aids on the bathroom counter. "You, drunk. Three bikers, also drunk. End result, two badly scraped knees, a nasty cut on your forehead, possibly two cracked ribs, and a set of bruises more colorful than a pack of Skittles. Inhale. Tell me where it hurts."

Dean took a deep breath. "Here. And here." He pointed to a particularly purple patch on his left side.

Faith whistled. "Glad I stocked up on supplies today. Okay, point again? Good. Now, exhale."

Beginning just above the first painful rib, Faith wrapped athletic bandages all the way around Dean's chest three times. She then wrapped in between the two ribs and below the second one. After tying off the cloth strips, she turned her attention to the ropy scar criss-crossing his torso, just superior to the bandages.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Wendigo." At her look of confusion, Dean added, "Cannibal spirit thing. Got me when I was a teenager."

"Oh." Faith traced the scar gently with two fingers. "Looks like a bitch."

He smiled. "Hurt like one, too."

"And these bruises?" She touched a widespread yellow bruise on his upper back.

"Ghost. Threw me down a staircase."

"Sucks."

"Mmhmm." This wasn't really something he wanted to talk about, so Dean turned the tables. "How 'bout you? You got any interesting scars?"

"A couple." She pulled up her t-shirt to reveal a nasty three-inch scar a few inches above and to the left of her right hipbone.

Dean stared at the mark, shocked by its sheer ugliness.

"Go ahead. Touch it," Faith urged.

He did. Strangely, the scar itself felt cold compared with the warm skin surrounding it. "What happened?"

"Got into a disagreement with a friend." She shrugged. "I lost."

There was definitely something else there, but Dean was smart enough not to press. He pulled his hand back. "Any others?" he asked with a cheesy grin, to change the subject.

Faith smiled her predator smile. "Just this." She pulled her hair back, away from the left side of her neck, and tilted her head at a weird angle. Dean leaned forward to see more clearly. For a moment, he didn't see anything, and then he saw it: two raised red marks halfway up her neck, three inches or so in between them..

"What . . . who bit you?"

The Slayer stepped backwards. She picked up another washcloth from the sink and started tending to the scrape on his forehead. "Vampire," she said after a moment's silence. "Needed to bring him in alive, so I had to dose him with a vampie-downer. Sad part is, you can't really inject those into vamps, you know. Has to be drunk, all nice and freshly mixed, 98.6."

"Ouch. That . . . bites."

She laughed. "It did, at that." Faith stuck a fresh band-aid smeared with antibiotic ointment on the cut. "There, all done. Now, if we're finished with this little episode of 'You show me yours, I'll show you mine,' let's get you up to speed on the vampire situation."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is going to be quite the slow burn, since both Dean and Faith are experts in cynicism and distrusting people. Although I have a good idea of the plot's eventual destination, this story is all about the journey. That said, I do not know how long this will end up being. At least fifteen chapters, probably more. Thanks for taking the time to read!  
>AiH<strong>


	4. Let's Play Bait

Dean was starting to get the idea that Vampire Slayers did things quite differently from hunters. For starters, Faith was extremely nonchalant about the entire thing. Sure, she did prep work, but the urgency Dean associated with his father in particular and hunting in general was lacking.

After opening the giant chest in her bedroom to reveal a stockpile of little bottles of holy water, various edged weapons, and at least a dozen sharply pointed sticks (he was informed that these were "stakes"), she seemed content to sit on her couch and turn on the television. Admittedly, she was also teaching Dean how to make and sharpen a stake. Still, there was something disconcerting about her watching a Passions marathon while holding a giant knife and scraping the edges off of a piece of wood.

When he asked about research, Faith laughed and told him that book research wouldn't help track down a nest of garden-variety vampires. They hadn't done anything interesting enough to be in a book. Dean brought up the murdered bookstore owners. She had an answer for that, too. Andrew and some of the other White Hats in town had swept through the stores from top to bottom, checking the inventory. Everything of an occult nature had been accounted for.

Basically, Faith went against everything Dean had expected from a Slayer. Granted, he had only heard about Slayers that morning, so his expectations hadn't had long to germinate. He wondered if some of the other Slayers in town would be coming on the hunt tonight. The hunter had a sneaking suspicion that Faith did not fit into the general mold.

Around five o'clock in the afternoon, someone knocked on the door. Faith left the couch and went to answer it, checking carefully through the peephole before letting the visitor in. It was a skinny young man with dirty blond hair and a Star Trek T-shirt, carrying a black backpack in one hand and a large, grease-stained, brown paper bag in the other.

"Dean, Andrew. Andrew, Dean." Faith did introductions with a lazy gesture. "Andrew was with me last night when we found you, Dean. Technically, he's my Watcher. In practice, I'm teaching him how to fight his way out of a wet plastic bag. Right, Drew?"

"Faith, your words, like always, are designed to wound. But I see and acknowledge the kindness within."

The hunter's eyes widened. Was this kid for real? Apparently so, for Faith just snorted and shook her head.

"What'd you bring us, Drew?" Faith asked, eyeing the paper bag.

Andrew grinned with pride. "Burgers and fries from Ted's down the street. I got two for everyone."

Well. If this kid was the Burger Fairy, Dean could definitely put up with his weird geekiness. The three of them sat down at the kitchen table and dug into the chow. Faith retrieved a giant bottle of ketchup and three beers from the fridge, which the hunter appreciated. In between bites, she quizzed Andrew about someone named "Robin" and the latest update on the vampire nest. Had anyone else managed to pinpoint their location?

"Sorry, Faith," Andrew said with a shrug. "They gave you the assignment, and their involvement's over."

The Slayer rolled her eyes and bit vehemently into her second cheeseburger. "That's crap," she complained around a mouthful of processed grease. "I am really getting tired of this passive aggressive shtick."

Dean stayed quiet. This was Slayer business, which meant it was probably none of his. Faith must have noticed something, however, because she turned to answer his unspoken question.

"There's a passel of Slayers working this Hellmouth," she explained, "all under the direction of a bastard named Robin. He passes along all the crappy stuff that theoretically could be handled by one Slayer to me. Since I'm awesome, I handle it. Solo."

"I help!" Andrew interjected, watching the Slayer warily.

The furrow across Faith's brow softened. "Yes, you do." She glanced at Dean. "You probably think we're all crazy. Hunters usually operate in groups of two or three, yeah? I bet that cuts down on the drama. Slayers? We're, uh, what's the word you like so much, Andrew?"

"Melodramatic."

"Right. Slayers are melodramatic. And the people they get to be Watchers and Scoobies? Even worse. A 'Scoobie' is a Slayer-sidekick, by the way. Colloquialism."

"Mmm. So, Faith, do you have a plan?" Andrew asked innocently.

Faith took a deep swig from her beer and set it back on the table. She kept her fingers curled around the cold glass. "We've got a Slayer, a white belt in karate, and a hunter with cracked ribs. Hunting a nest of vamps that could have anything from six to twelve bloodsuckers. They're new to the city, and I haven't met any of them yet. There can only be one plan."

The Watcher-in-training groaned. "Not that one. I hate that one." To Dean, in an aside, "She always goes for that one."

Dean had a feeling he was missing something. "What one?"

The newfound excitement brimming in Faith's brown eyes was positively indecent. "The one where I play bait."

"It really isn't fair to anyone," Andrew answered Dean's confusion. "And it only works when the vampires haven't heard of her. She plays damsel in distress until they come after her. Usually without backup."

"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" Dean wondered, unable to keep his mouth shut.

Grinning mischievously, Faith laughed. "That's entirely the point."

* * *

><p>The sun had begun to set by the time they finished dinner, and Faith disappeared into her bedroom to change into "bait." Andrew looked sympathetically at Dean and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said confidentially, "you just have to go with it."<p>

Dean nodded, feeling awkward. He wished his dad would have answered the phone earlier that day. He wondered if John knew anything about Slayers and how he would have handled this situation. At the moment, there was nothing for it but to follow Andrew's advice and just go with it.

Moments later, the Slayer emerged, all "baited" up. She had traded her jeans for a pair of skintight red leather pants and a silvery, spangled top that left her midriff and half of her back bare. She had also caked on eye makeup and dark, red lipstick. To complete the ensemble, Faith wore thigh high black boots.

"Good?" she asked the room at large.

"Very slutty," Andrew said approvingly. "You could definitely pick up a guy dressed like that."

Faith rolled her eyes at him. "Thanks. What do you think, Dean?"

"Can you fight in that?"

Looking up from stuffing weapons into Andrew's backpack, the Slayer smiled, "Oh, yeah."

Dean frowned. "Is anyone actually going to attack you?"

Her smile widened. "We set the scene for 'em, properly, and they won't be able to help themselves. Okay? Yeah? Let's roll out."

The eclectic hunting party piled into Andrew's green Honda and drove across town. They parked in front of the same bar as the night before. Andrew pulled a detailed map of the city out of his backpack, a map covered in scribbles and highlighter. He and Faith conferred briefly, and then Faith climbed out of the car.

"Come on, Dean," she called, walking towards the alleyway. "Let's go."

Dean followed her. "What about him?" He nodded his head towards Andrew, who was still sitting in the car.

Faith shrugged, proceeding rapidly down the alley.. "He'll go inside, talk to the locals, get some onion rings, and keep his phone on loud. It's how we work."

"Back-up doesn't really work if it's ten minutes away when someone chomps down on you." Upon reflection, perhaps that was an unwise remark, given Faith's vampire scars. To his relief, however, she merely laughed.

"Andrew's good back-up, yeah, but not necessary on a simple track-and-stake operation. Besides, that's what you're here for, right?" She slipped her hand between Dean's arm and his side and held onto his bicep.

The hunter stepped away from her, pulling his arm loose. "What are you -?"

Lowering her voice, Faith closed the distance between them. "Nothing is going to come after us if your body language keeps screaming, 'hunter.' So you can hold my hand or put your arm around me or whatever, but you need to start acting distracted, not wary."

Displaying more reluctance than he actually felt, Dean put his arm across Faith's shoulders. She fit herself against his side and reached up to hold his hand.

"There. You look less dangerous already." she murmured. "Now, there's something I didn't want to talk about in front of Andrew. Best not to scare the children, and all." Her free arm wrapped itself around Dean's waist, brushing against the revolver tucked into the back of his waistband. "Why are you still carrying your gun? Guns don't work on vampires."

"Habit," he answered shortly.

Faith chuckled deep in her throat. "You know, Dean Winchester, I'm starting to think you might be just as effed up as I am."

The couple rounded the corner and continued their stroll through some of the creepiest alleys Dean had ever seen. There was trash and puddles of _something_ everywhere. The hunter expected someone to jump out at them from every doorway. His spidey senses were tingling, and his muscles tensed, following suit.

"Easy, tiger," Faith purred. "No vampires yet. We're taking the long way 'round. Starting with the least likely streets, working our way to the most likely."

"Right . . . Can I ask a question?"

"As long as you keep your voice down and relax those broad shoulders of yours, sure."

She didn't mean to be irritating, Dean reminded himself. Probably. He forced some of the tension out of his traps. Tried to think about how he would be feeling if he were actually wandering around the city with his girlfriend tucked under his arm. Trouble was, Dean was too smart to ever take a girl in the dark through monster territory on a date. Relaxing when he knew vampires were in the area was almost impossible.

"How come you're on the outs with the other Slayers?"

A sharp inhale of breath. "That's kind of personal, isn't it?"

"Trying to suss out if I can trust you."

This comment was met with an angry laugh. "Dean. If I wanted to do something nasty to you, I wouldn't bother with all this foreplay."

"Is that what this is?"

Another angry laugh, and the hand around his waist moved to press painfully against his cracked ribs. "I was trying to be nice and help out a fellow professional. Show you the vampire ropes. You want out, you can take off, and good riddance."

"Now who's not relaxed?" Dean regretted his snark a moment later when Faith poked his ribs a second time. "Ouch. Can you stop that?"

Her hand lowered again. They continued patrolling in silence for several blocks until Dean ran out of patience.

"Faith, do _you_ trust _me?"_ Maybe he could get his point across if he approached this from the opposite direction.

She didn't even hesitate. "Of course not."

"And you're okay hunting with someone you don't trust?"

_"Dean."_

He looked down and met her amused gaze. "What?"

_"Duck."_

His body reacted before his brain could catch up with it, dodging to the side and dropping into a crouch as a snarling something leapt past him and landed on top of Faith. The Slayer went down beneath a creature with weird ridges all over its forehead and the nastiest pair of yellow fangs Dean had ever seen. Faith got one hand around the vampire's throat, holding it at bay while she dug a stake out of her boot with the other. Then it was all over. The stake slid, smooth as butter, into the vampire's upper rib cage, and it exploded into a shower of dust. It had taken her less than thirty seconds.

"You okay?" she asked Dean, flipping back to her feet.

Ashamed of the fact that he hadn't come to her rescue, Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. You?"

"Five by five." Faith spun on her heel, doing a quick 360 survey of the alley. "Sh-t. Looks like they found us. We've got company."

Dean glanced over his shoulder to see seven solid shadows merging out of the darkness around them. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but he counted four males and three females, all dressed in the same type of grungy clothes, their faces all fangs and protruding brow ridges. The hunter moved to be at Faith's back, keeping his eyes on the vamps at all times.

"Slayer," hissed the vampire's leader, a brunette male with the build of a lumberjack.

"Yup," Faith confirmed, doing a little shimmy to shake the dust off her outfit. "Are you the one who's been eating homeless veterans? How very unpatriotic of you." Under her breath, she whispered to Dean, "Now comes the posturing and witty repartee. How many of 'em are you good for?"

"Uh…"

"I'll leave you two to start off with." Returning her attention to vampires, Faith continued, louder, "So, boys, who wants to start?"

A redheaded female vampire stepped forward to stand beside her leader. "Who's the new boyfriend? Another vampire?"

"Nah, it's the blonde who sleeps with vampires," the leader chuckled, as his followers fanned out to encircle their prey. "What's your name, Slayer girl? You look like one of the newbies. Should have known better than to bring your date into our territory."

Faith tapped her stake against her leg in an easy cadence. "Name's Faith, kids. Now, and I'm only going to ask this one more time, who wants to start?"

"A real Slayer," came the greedy whisper from one of the vampire henchmen. "Imagine, killing the last true Slayer of the bloodline!"

"Talk about street credit," purred the redhead.

"I'm so over this," Faith grumbled to Dean. Then she laughed. "Little above your pay grade, boys. Don't know if you bottom-feeders are high enough up on the food chain to have heard what happened to Angelus the last time he went after me. I shoved a soul right up his a –"

One of the female vampires, a full-figured blonde, took a couple of steps forward. "Robert, can I have the boy? He's awfully pretty. Looks like fun."

"Hey," the Slayer growled. "Pretty boy is mine." She lashed out with a roundhouse kick and caught the blonde in the stomach, knocking her off her feet. The female vampire hit the ground in front of Dean, who staked her.

Two other vampires rushed Faith from opposite sides, planning to catch her between them. She darted forward, letting them crash into each other. As they bounced backwards from the impact, Faith shoved her stake through the ribs of first one, and then the second. Tossing her head, the Slayer turned to the other four vampires.

"Okay? Who's next?"

Robert, the vampire leader grinned at her. "You will live to regret that, Slayer. Just before you die. Veronica?"

The redhead, who was likely second-in-command, ran at the Slayer, snarling. Faith sidestepped her easily, only to be caught in a bear hug from another lumberjack type vamp who had snuck up on that side. The Slayer squirmed, stomping down on the vampire's instep with her boots and slamming the back of her skull into his chin, but the lumberjack's grip did not loosen an inch.

At the same time, the redhead doubled back and attacked Dean. She jumped onto his back, trapping his throat in her elbow and squeezing. Dean started seeing spots. He twisted from side to side, but the vampire would not be thrown off.

Unwilling to let things go sideways, Faith suddenly collapsed in the thug vampire's grip. Caught by surprise, the vampire relaxed his hold. Just by a fraction, but that was enough. The Slayer jerked loose and had six inches of wood buried in his side before you could say "jackknife." She didn't even pause long enough to watch him turn to ash. Instead, Faith pulled her spare stake out of her other boot.

"Dean, go left!" she ordered.

As she expected, Dean went right instead. The redheaded vamp was slung slightly to the left, giving Faith an opening. She leapt forward and rammed her stake through the vampire's back, just below and to the right of where she guessed the left scapula to be. And then Dean was choking on ash, rubbing his throat, and stumbling towards Faith. She retrieved her stake from the pile of dust and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

The hunter nodded, but Faith had already moved on. She whirled to meet Robert, who managed to land several hard blows on the Slayer's arms and chest before she swept his feet out from under him with a low sweep kick. Faith straddled the vampire on the ground, pinning his arms on either side with her knees.

"Talk time," she ordered. "What are you doing in Cleveland? And why the occult stores?"

"Like I'd tell you," the vampire scoffed.

Faith whipped a knife out of nowhere and pressed the blade up against Robert's throat. "Oh, I think I can persuade you."

Finally getting his cough in control, Dean was just in time to see the seventh vampire sneaking up from behind Faith. _Oh, no, you don't,_ he thought grimly, and then Dean was running, tackling the thing to the nasty alley gravel, punching its bloody face in. Even though there were two stakes in his jacket pockets, Dean kept hitting the vampire, barely aware of the fact his own knuckles were bleeding.

The next thing he knew, Faith was shaking him by the shoulders and shoving something into his hand. "Dean. Just stake the poor bastard already."

Dean's hand closed on the stake of its own accord and moved automatically to impale the vampire. It turned to dust, and the hunter slumped to the ground.

But Faith was still holding onto him, and she tugged gently at his shoulders until he got to his feet. Then her hands were patting him down, checking for any new injuries. "You all right? You kind of lost it for a minute there."

"I, uh." Words weren't really working for Dean, so he took a moment to stare at the Slayer, who had somehow managed to stake six vampires without messing up her clothing or makeup. "The title's kinda accurate, isn't it?"

"What title?" Having decided that Dean didn't show signs of impending death, Faith started walking back the way they had come.

He hurried to catch up with her. "Vampire Slayer. That was . . . I've never seen anything like that before." There. That sounded better than '_That was brutal_' or '_You're an eff-ing killing machine, but I still think you're hot as hell._'

"You did pretty good for a first-timer."

"Thanks." They walked together in companionable silence, arms brushing every half-dozen steps or so.

"Did you mean what you said back there?" asked Dean when they were almost back to the bar.

"Huh?"

"Quote, "Pretty Boy is mine," unquote?"

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thoughts? How did you like the fight scene? Are there any requests for things people would like to see? Thanks for reading!  
>AiH<p> 


	5. The Storyteller

They found Andrew, still in the car, listening to a beat-up yellow Walkman with giant black headphones and scribbling on a notepad. Faith knocked on the driver's window glass once, startling the younger man. She opened the door and read over his shoulder.

"Spock and Kirk again, Drew? What have I told you about fanzines on the job?"

Andrew blushed but held his ground. "For your information, Faith, fanzines are a thing of the past. Fan _fiction_ is all moving to the internet now."

"Of course it is," she muttered, unconvinced. Shutting the car door firmly, she slunk around to shotgun while Dean slid into the Honda's backseat. "So," adjusting her spangly top, "what else you got for us?"

Stowing his notepad, the young man grabbed his city map and flipped it open. "Robin called. They've got five – no, six – new vampires scheduled to rise tonight, all in Calvary Cemetery, which makes things easy. Elizabeth, Jackie, and Sophie are tackling that one. Um, Violet got into a tangle with a Fyarl demon, and apparently there's a werewolf running around near the Cleveland Clinic, but other than that, it's all quiet."

Wondering if he'd heard correctly, Dean leaned forward into the front seat. "What makes a demon feral?"

"Fee-arrrrrl demon," Andrew rolled his r's obnoxiously. "Fairly unintelligent foot soldier demons. Orange skin, sticky-outy-shoulder bones, curling horns like a big-horned sheep. Not quite as fluffy though. Fairly stupid, but their mucus can paralyze people – like Medusa, just with snot instead of eye contact . . ."

"Orange _what?"_

Faith provided a quick explanation about the different types of demons she had encountered. Turns out, it was a little like the whole vampire wolf-coyote thing. Apparently, not all demons were from Hell – or even a hell dimension – and very few of them actually possessed people. Their blood wasn't pure enough, or they came from the wrong dimension, or something. It was rather confusing.

Satisfied that she had thoroughly muddied the waters of understanding, the Slayer asked Andrew, "So. What went down with Vi? Does she need a rescue?"

Andrew squinted at an illegible note on the map. "She was partnering with Rona, who was smart enough to have a silver knife on her – they were originally tracking the werewolf. Anyway, the Fyarl demon sneezed, Vi got coated in boogies and went down like a rock, but Rona snuck up on the Fyarl and stabbed it. Adios, demon. Rona took Vi back to headquarters, got all of the snot washed off. According to the lore, the paralysis should wear off in a couple of hours. Luckily, Violet didn't breathe any of it in, or we'd be heading to the hospital to see her in the ICU right now."

"Hmmn. Not bad. And the werewolf?"

"Robin and Amanda are on its trail. They've been offline for the last hour or so – if I don't hear anything in thirty minutes, we probably need to go after them."

"Brilliant." The Slayer slumped back in her seat. "Dean, what's your take on werewolves?"

The hunter smiled, eyes gleaming. "Haven't hunted one since I was a kid. Sounds like fun."

"We don't kill werewolves, usually. We tranq 'em, wait till morning, have the 'talk' about their nighttime recreational choices. That cool with you?"

Dean's smile became chilly. "Depends. Does that stop them eating people?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. If it doesn't, then . . . then we put them down. Undesirable, but sometimes necessary."

"Okay. Sounds good to me. Andrew, you mentioned vampires scheduled to rise. What exactly does that mean?"

"If you keep track of people who've died of exsanguination or who had vampire-associated symptoms, you can predict when they're going to climb out of their graves. Makes staking vampires before they kill anyone a little easier," Andrew explained.

"Oh. Awesome." Dean sprawled out across the back seat. "Is this what a usual night is like for you guys? Taking down a nest of vampires, then going out and hunting more?"

Slayer and Watcher-in-training exchanged amused glances. "Something like that," Faith admitted. "Only usually I'm training one of the newbie Slayer how not to become demon chow."

"It's a fairly exhausting job, to be fair," Andrew added. "A lot of the new Slayers are very naïve."

This was an interesting remark, coming from a guy who embodied Dean's vision of the word 'naïve.' "Uh huh," he said noncommittally. "So, what now? More vampires? Or how about a game of pool?"

Faith punched a few buttons on the dashboard and checked the time on the car radio. "Nine-thirty. Let's go play pool. A little trouble would do Andrew some good. Wouldn't it, Drew?"

"Faith, I am honor bound to remind you that your idea of 'a little trouble' is outlawed in fifteen states and heavily prosecuted in six others." He heaved a truly long-suffering sigh. "But sure, let's go in.

* * *

><p>Andrew considered himself quite the budding author. In fact, his innate gift for storytelling expanded past his work for several well-known fanzines to a brief history of the life of Buffy the Slayer of the Vampyrs to a half-finished demon encyclopedia (complete with pictures). He just had a nose for stories, a sixth sense, and a little voice in his head that was constantly commenting on anything the least bit story-worthy.<p>

As he followed Faith and Dean into the grungy inner city bar, this little voice was practically singing. There was a story to be found here, it promised. Something epic and romantic – or maybe just epic and tragic. The air about the hunter and the Slayer was simply rife with story potential.

It was there in the way Dean held the door open while checking out Faith's leather pants and in the way she eyed him when they were ordering drinks at the bar. It was there when she challenged him to a game of darts – and lost by a hairsbreadth. It surged whenever the two of them made direct eye contact and dropped to almost nothing when a call came in about Robin's successful takedown of the werewolf.

After purchasing his own drink, Andrew retired to a corner table and slurped diet Coke, making hasty notes in an Elvish script. Tengwar wasn't really that much slower to write in than English. Plus, it carried the added advantage of being unintelligible to Faith. Although, given her developing habit of stealing his Lord of the Rings fan mags when he wasn't looking, that advantage might not last too long.

_Here you have them,_ he scribbled. _Two apex predators from two different yet equal food chains. Meeting properly for the first time, but there is a dark and dangerous history hidden between them. Both possess secrets, which they keep closer than the Crown Jewels._

He glanced across the dim room to the wobbly pool table where Dean was hustling a game of pool while Faith flirted distractingly with his opponent.

_Although both are aware of their deep attraction, they refuse to acknowledge its presence. They fear that giving into their passions will destroy any chance of a blossoming relationship. Both so lonely, both a little crazy, they worry that letting go will result in complete immolation. Content to risk their lives on a nightly basis, they are too afraid of rejection to risk their hearts._

Feeling happy about this intro, Andrew started a pros and cons list about his new idea. Pros: some seriously hot nights, adorably angry brunette children with beautiful eyes, less having to deal with pissed-off Faith. Cons: a potential Bonnie/Clyde situation, dealing with the fallout if it went down the toilet.

Now, part of growing up was learning to recognize one's own faults, and he would be the first to admit his tendency to jump to conclusions. Perhaps it was a little soon to be thinking of fearsome brunette Slayer-hunter babies, but Andrew's storyteller instinct was too strong to be ignored. Forget Buffy/Spike. This ship was the new ship. It was the One True Ship (for the rest of the evening, anyway), and as such, must be guarded and tended carefully.

Thankfully, Andrew was smart enough to realize that the best way to "tend" his new ship was to leave it well enough alone. And so he watched, drinking his way through three cans of diet Coke, taking notes and adding bits of garbled "what-ifs" as Dean hustled his way into a wallet of cash. Interestingly enough, both Dean and Faith stopped after a couple of PBRs.

To his chagrin, the Watcher trainee had forgotten that Coke was a diuretic. Too soon, his bladder was uncomfortably full. Andrew ignored it. If he went to the bathroom, he was bound to miss something interesting. It was one of the unwritten laws that governed storytellers. Which meant that he was just going to have to hold it until they got back to the apartment.

It was a Thursday night, and so the number of people foolish enough to let the dangerous looking drifter trick them out of their money was rather low. Around eleven, Faith and Dean waltzed over to Andrew's table, looking a little too pleased with themselves.

"You ready to head home?" Faith slid into the booth next to Andrew, jostling his elbow.

"Yeah." Andrew carefully flipped the top page over his Elvish musings. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

* * *

><p>The drive back across town was surprisingly quiet. Both Faith and Dean spent the majority of the time staring out the windows at the city as it flashed past. They were just turning into the apartment complex when the Vampire Slayer announced, "Dean's gonna crash with us for the night."<p>

"I _can_ get a motel, you know," Dean tapped his newly fattened wallet.

"Nah. You'll need help taping those ribs back up after you shower." Faith tipped her head backwards and sniffed loudly. "And since you smell like booze, sweat, and the inside of a crematorium, I'd say a shower's non-negotiable."

Shifting the car into park, Andrew unbuckled his seatbelt and bolted for the apartment. He did not want to be the bug on the wall for _this_ ensuing conversation. "Bathroom," he called over his shoulder, digging his spare keys out of his pocket as he ran.

"I do need to be hitting the road pretty soon," the hunter drawled slowly, closing the back door of the Honda and leaning against the car frame.

Faith propped herself up next to him. "Twelve hours more can't hurt." She looked up into his eyes, trying to suss out whether they were green or hazel. "Stay."

"Is that a proposition?" Dean asked with exaggerated eyebrow movements.

She grinned. "Sorry, Pretty Boy. No dice. I've got this rule about not sleeping with business partners. It is also non-negotiable."

"Not even for a wounded warrior who just finished off his first vampires?" He dialed up the fake hurt in his voice.

The Slayer laughed. "Not even then. 'S nothing personal." She gave him a very pointed look to explain just how not-personal the rule was.

"Okay." Dean could understand that. Something she'd said earlier caught his attention. "Wait. Business partners?"

"Here." Faith very proprietarily reached into the hunter's back pocket and withdrew his phone. She started punching in numbers. "This is my actual phone number. You ever hunting something in the area, or you need advice on vampires, or you ever find yourself sitting in that pretty car of yours, cold and lonely, on some dark road in the middle of nowhere, you give me a call. I might even pick up."

"Cool. I might do that."

"Great."

"Listen," the hunter said after a minute's silence, "I really should be going. Gotta rendezvous with my hunting partner.

"A girl?" Faith asked, a little too quickly.

Dean smirked. "Nah. My dad."

She looked awkwardly down at her boots. "Oh. That's cool."

"But, hey, thanks." Faith glanced up, quizzical. "Thanks for the _educational_ day."

"Anytime. You, uh, you got everything?"

"Packed up the Impala earlier."

"You plan ahead."

"Yep. Well," Dean flashed his knee-buckling smile, complete with charming, roguish wink, "you take care now. And I'll see you around."

Faith nodded, then waited until he was halfway in the Impala before speaking. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You come back 'round, I might even break that rule of mine." And with that parting shot and a final grin, she disappeared into the apartment.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading! Next up, Dean and Faith do some long-distance bonding. The next chapter should be posted sometime next weekend.  
>'Til then,<br>AiH


	6. Interstate Communication, pt1

**September 5****th****, 2003, somewhere along I-80.**

Nothing but the night and an empty highway in front of him, zipping past belabored semis and SUVs full of families with children. Life was _fantastic._ Metallica blasting on the stereo, his Dad and a hunt waiting in Nevada, Iowa already behind him with three states and thirteen hours to go. Life was _great._ Pulling over in Kearney to grab a couple of burgers, some gas, and more snacks. Life was _awesome_.

Going to switch cassettes to Styx, only to have the Metallica stick. Tugging a little harder, until the cassette came free, but was now spilling its magnetic tape insides all over the place, like a man with a gut wound, trying and failing to hold in its intestines. Life _sucked._

Dean cursed his way steadily through the next five miles, the Styx tape abandoned in the passenger seat next to the destroyed Metallica. It stung like a personal injury. Music was ruined forever now – or at least for the next hour.

Fifteen miles further down the road, the mocking silence became too much. Grabbing his scratched cell phone from the console, he scrolled through the contacts, finally finding the number he was looking for. Dean hit the call button.

Six rings later, a breathless voice answered. "Hello? Hang on a minute." He heard a series of thuds and grunts, a muffled whimpering, an exhaled "Ha!" and then the voice returned, panting, "Yeah? This's Faith."

"Er . . . this a bad time?"

"That you, Dean?" Another heavy exhale and the gentle clink of an earring against the phone. "Sorry about that. Just had to take care of a vampire." This was followed by the steady staccato of boot heels on asphalt as Faith started walking somewhere.

"You answer the phone when you're on a hunt?"

The Slayer chuckled quietly. "I prefer the word patrolling, ya know? Looking for sketchy business. Or, in this case, strolling through cemeteries, waiting for vamps to rise. I'm two for two tonight. Three more to go . . . What's up with you?"

"Nebraska to Nevada. Might stopover in Salt Lake City, if the traffic gets too annoying. Utah drivers_suck_."

"Hmm. Never been through Utah." A rustle and a swish.

"What was that?"

"Oh, I'm just sitting pretty on this nice headstone, here, until Mr. Stephen F. Jung decides to crawl out of his coffin and come play . . . Unusual, that."

Dean didn't quite compute. "What's unusual?"

Drumming her heels against the granite stone, Faith took a moment to reply. "What? Oh, the guy was buried this morning – it usually takes a couple of weeks to a month for people to put up proper grave markers. Hah. How weird is it that I know that?"

"Depends who you're asking. Your average civilian would probably give that a seven on the weirdness scale."

"And you, Mr. Non-Average Civilian?"

"Doesn't even register."

"Hang on," she said abruptly, setting the phone down. When she next spoke, her voice came from far away, "Hold tight, Dean. This'll just take a second."

Addressing someone else, the Slayer continued, "Stephen, right? Sorry to bother you when you're still . . . adjusting, but do you remember who bit you?"

The response was too quiet to hear, a low, incomprehensible rumble.

"Super. Thanks for the info. And, uh, hasta luego."

Something – most likely the newly risen Stephen – groaned. Seconds later, Faith's voice returned to the phone. "Three for three," she announced cheerfully. "Did you hear any of that? I put you on speaker."

"You staking the poor devil? Yeah, I caught it. Know what is weird, Faith?"

"What?" The sound of boots on asphalt became prominent again as the Slayer migrated to a different part of the cemetery.

Hesitant, Dean paused. He wanted to phrase this properly. "You seem to treat the whole Slaying thing kinda casually."

Faith's shrug was audible. "You know what, Dean? I try not to sweat the small stuff. Life's too short, your average vampire is too stupid, and all that jazz. Come around next time there's an apocalypse in Cleveland, though, and you'll see me serious."

"The _next_ time there's an apocalypse? Isn't the Apocalypse supposed to be a one-time deal?"

"Mmm, you'd be surprised. They used to get 'em once a year or so back in Sunnydale. To be honest, I'm kinda waiting for something big and nasty to pop up. I've been here since June, and it is way too quiet."

"Five vampires in one night is your definition of quiet?" The question was tinged with shock.

"It's a decent-sized city, Cleveland. Situated on a Hellmouth, too – that's a freaking big hellgate in hunter parlance."

The hunter snorted. "_Parlance_? Speaking of nerds, how's Andrew?"

"Good. I think. He's relocating to Rome in a month or two. Apparently the group of Slayers out there needs some Watching."

"Huh. Is he going to be able to handle that? I thought you were still training him?"

Faith sniggered. "I'm kind of like the Wild West version of a Slayer. If a Watcher can hack it with me, they can handle pretty much anyone . . . I tend to go through Watchers the way some girls go through shoes. But I guess you could say I'm reforming lately."

"If this is you reforming, I'd like to see you let loose. Sounds like it might get interesting."

All of the humor disappeared from Faith's voice. "No, Dean, you really wouldn't," she said coolly. "Trust me on this one."

"Okay. Sorry. Didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not ups - hold that thought."

Dean listened to the noise of what he was coming to classify as "Vampire Slayage." After the sound of some heavy blows hitting home, a loud crash as something tumbled to the ground, and a high, female scream that he could barely identify as "not-Faith's," the Slayer returned to the phone.

"Four down, one to go . . . Anyway, Dean, seen any interesting movies lately?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 20<strong>**th****, ShopRite grocery store, Cleveland, Ohio **

Faith Lehane was being seduced by the mundane. And she was trying very, very hard to keep it a secret. Like most seductions, it had started out quite innocent. After all, it made sense for the Watcher's Council to provide a modest one-bedroom apartment for their senior Slayer. Given Faith's limited funds and strong preference for privacy, it followed naturally that she cared for it all on her own.

Suddenly, Faith was being introduced to an entire vocabulary – really, an entire world – that she had never particularly thought about before. Liquid versus powder detergent. Vacuums where there was actually a difference between the hard floor and carpet settings. Cooking meals that didn't involve Hamburger Helper or the microwave. _Organic produce_.

To her utter disbelief, she enjoyed it. Cleaning up after herself (and, occasionally, Andrew), making sure that the laundry was done, the car was running, and the refrigerator was filled with non-moldy food. For so long, she had been following someone else's orders or living on an institution's schedule. It was absolutely beautiful to be in control again.

It would never do for Robin and the Slayerettes to discover that the Slayer was becoming domesticated, so she did her best to keep her extracurricular activities under wraps. Conferring with Giles over late night phone calls about receiving her GED, strong-arming Angel into using his evil lawyer firm to get her sentence changed to parole, meeting with her parole officer and being relatively honest with him. Faith found herself studying algebra in the afternoons and hitting the grocery store more often than strictly necessary to procure ingredients for some weird recipe Andrew had found online.

What this meant, she supposed, was that she was growing up. Taking another step into the real world and out of the insanity that had been Sunnydale. Actually making friends – if one counted Andrew, which she did, and Dean, which she was still on the fence about. It was . . . nice.

Faith jerked out of her inner musings and concentrated more forcefully on the case of vegetables in front of her. Broccoli or cauliflower? Or carrots? She puttered around the produce section, trying to find a bag of salad greens that wasn't too wilted and slimy. At last locating a satisfactory specimen, she tossed it into her cart along with the carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes.

Speaking of Dean . . . the Slayer reached into her jeans pocket for her cell phone. While debating between oranges or apples, she tapped the phone unconsciously. Oh, well. What the hell. It couldn't hurt. Might even help.

She found his number from the call a few weeks' previous and punched 'call.' Holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, she ran her hands over the navel oranges until she had picked four decent ones. Just as she was twirling the plastic produce bag and tying it shut, someone answered.

"Hullo?"

"Hey, Dean."

"Faith?" He sounded surprised. Hmm. Interesting.

"How're kicks?" Faith winced, retreating from a very nice quart of strawberries. People as awkward as she didn't deserve strawberries. "Er. I mean, how did the hunt go? Nevada, right?"

The hunter snickered. "Kicks are good, yeah. The hunt turned out okay."

"You gonna give me any juicy details? Ghost, demon, what was it?"

"Ghost. People were wanting to reopen this abandoned silver mine near Rochester, which was closed after – you guessed it – a shaft collapsed, killing this old guy who owned the mine back in the '20s. Anyway, in the last two months, three of the main people involved in the project died mysteriously – locked rooms, the whole shebang."

"Sounds like Miner forty-Niner."

"Ha. Yep, exactly."

"How'd you stop him?" Faith wheeled her cart down the cereal aisle. She was almost out of Frosted Flakes, which could not be allowed to happen.

Dean coughed. "That was the hard part. See, he was still buried in the shaft."

"No. Effing. Way. You didn't."

"What are you thinking?" She could hear his smile.

The Slayer reached up on tiptoe to grab her Frosted Flakes. "I can see two possibilities. One, you go in during the daylight, try to excavate the shaft and find the bones."

"And two?"

Conscious of the soccer mom standing behind her, who had been trying to convince her toddler that they really did not need those Lucky Charms and was now staring, Faith lowered her voice, "Two, you have some fun, blow the whole thing to smithereens, then see if Miner Forty-Niner shows his face again. Right?"

Sugary cereal now securely in the basket, Faith retreated. Maybe it was best not to discuss explosions in front of small children.

"You're catching on. You ever hunted a ghost before?"

"Not exactly," she replied absent-mindedly, still keeping her voice down. Was it 2% or 1% milk that she had gotten last time? Crap. She hated when she forgot the important things. "Slayers don't usually mess with ghosts. The closest I've ever come was this thing that could impersonate any dead person in the world, but it wasn't really a ghost. Ended up destroying the town to stop it."

The man frowned. "Why are you whispering?"

"I'm in the grocery store, and I don't want to get kicked out before I hit the frozen section."

After fifteen seconds' silence, "You call me while you're _grocery shopping_?"

"What? Half of the people who are here by themselves are on their phones. Question – which one's better: two percent or one percent milk fat?"

"Two percent," Dean replied shortly.

"That's what I was thinking." Faith opened the cooler door and grabbed a gallon. Nestling it into her cart carefully to avoid squashing the produce, she continued towards the eggs. "Let's see, I still need eggs, butter, probably some lunch meat . . . I already got bread and peanut butter and jam . . ."

"What kind of jam?" The question was automatic.

"Apricot. I'm doing this new thing where I buy a different flavor every time. You know, there are so many options in the world, besides grape and strawberry. I had no idea…"

"A Vampire Slayer who geeks out about jam?"

Midway through checking a carton of eggs for cracks, Faith chuckled. "And that's one of my normal habits."

"I can only imagine." He hesitated, then asked one of the questions on his mind, "You sound really excited. Does grocery shopping always get you this chipper?"

"Mmm, well, I never really used to do it before. Not properly, I mean. I used to be a fast-food, convenience store, microwavable burritos and beer type of girl. Since I'm almost twenty-three now, I figured that I might as well start thinking about my arteries. I guess it's new? And that's why I like it?"

"Okay. Just curious. Speaking of, did you call for any, uh, particular reason?"

"Now that you mention it,what do you know about ghouls? I found some tooth-marked bones and gnawed-on bodies last night in places they really shouldn't've been. Did a fair bit of research this morning, but no luck."

"Excuse me, young lady!"

Dammit. It was the soccer mom from earlier, covering the ears of her precious toddler and glaring balefully at Faith. Apparently, the deli counter wasn't a safe place for Slayer-hunter discussions, either.

Faith sighed. "Crap. Dean, I'm going to have to call you back."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Apologies for the delay in updating. I am almost finished with my first semester of finals as a medical student, and I've been too busy cramming to write. Only one more exam to go, though! There should be at least one more chapter posted before Christmas.

Also, I'm still getting properly caught up on SPN season 10, and I just saw the 200th episode last night. What did y'all think of Supernatural the Musical? And season 10 in general?

Cheers,  
>AiH<p> 


	7. Interstate Communication, ptII

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 15, 2003 at 1:30 a.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Pagan Gods?  
><strong>**Attached: chickseamonster1 . jpg**

Hey. What do you know about pagan gods? Weird sh-t is happening around here. Not having much luck with the books. Did find this, though. It's no Busty Asian Beauty, but there's some definite skin involved.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:15 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Pagan Gods**

Damn, girl. Where did you find that creepy- ss picture? I've never gone up against a pagan god. Word is they can be pretty nasty. Take care of yourself.

Dean

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:30 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Occult Woodcuts**

Thanks. Stayed up all night reading through old books. Eyes are blurry. Feels worse than a hangover. Still don't know what the Big Bad is. Only conclusion I came to is that whoever compiled this lore crap hired a seriously whacked-out illustrator. That thing I sent you? Barely the tip of the Titanic iceberg.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 15, 2003 at 12:35 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: You Sound Tired**

Isn't there a whole squad of you guys? Farm the research out and get some sleep.

Dean

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:40 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Look at Thisssssss  
><strong>**Attached: nakeddemonything2 . jpg**

Check thisssss out. Why do books always show naked monsters? I like never fight naked monsters. Do you hunt naked monsters? I want to fight naked monsters.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:45 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Get Offline and Go to Bed.**

See subject.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 12:50 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: This Means War**

Dean Winchester. Don't tell me what to do. See subject line. I challenge you to a battle of occult woodcuts. Whoever can find the worst one before Halloween wins. You're already two down, Pretty Boy. Better get to work.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:00 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: You're On  
><strong>**Attached: ladansedesabbat . jpg**

Just . . . try not to get anyone killed?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:05 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Awwwww**

Is the big bad hunter concerned about the wittle bittle Slayer?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:10 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: You're Losing It**

And, no.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:15 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Good Night**

Andrew called. Someone else got a hit. We're going after the thing tonight. Guess I can sleep now?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 16, 2003 at 1:20 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Good Night**

Good luck. Be careful out there.

. . .

* * *

><p><strong>From: ZepHead_79<br>****To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 23, 2003 at 11:00 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Prepare to be Beaten  
><strong>**Attached: wereattackcranach . jpg**

This is why I don't like werewolves. How'd it go with your pagan god?

Dean

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:22 a.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Sorry About Delay**

Nice one. Turns out it wasn't a pagan god after all but some kind of water spirit come out of Lake Erie. The damn thing liked to drag its victims back into the water – and guess who ended up playing bait? Long story short, I've been sleeping and blowing my nose for about a week straight – and I'm still shivering.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 9:45 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Impale Anyone Lately?  
><strong>**Attached: ****therealvladtepes . jpg**

That blows. Lake spirits are the worst. You ok now? I'm following up on some disappearances in Connecticut. Parking here is a bitch.

Dean

P.S. Is this Vlad guy the actual Dracula?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:00 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Impale Anyone Lately?**

I'll have to look that one up. Never met Dracula. I'm good, except for the shivering. Spend a lot of my time heating blankets in the dryer.

Faith

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:02 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Re: Impale Anyone Lately?**

Want me to come over there and warm you up?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:05 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Impale Anyone Lately?**

Come right on over, Pretty Boy. I'll be waiting. That is – if you can leave your disappearances unsolved.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:10 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Dammit**

Can't. Raincheck?

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:15 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Dammit**

:( Sorry. One time offer.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:20 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Well...**

Guess I'll just have to change your mind, then.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:25 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Hit me with your best shot**

See what I did there?

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:30 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: You Suck**

I'm trying to save people here.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:35 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: You Suck**

Sorry, can't hear you. Too busy wrapping myself in a giant blanket straight out of the dryer.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 10:45 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Enough**

Last time I ever try to be nice to you.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:50 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: That's Okay**

Bad boys are more my type.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003 at 10:55 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Stop it.**

See subject line.

. . .

**From: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**To: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 11:00 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Good Night**

If you say so. Good night, Dean.

P.S. Sweet dreams, cowboy.

. . .

**From: ZepHead_79  
><strong>**To: FyreCracker5x5  
><strong>**Date: October 25, 2003, at 11:05 p.m.  
><strong>**Subject: Re: Good Night**

Sometimes, I kinda hate you.

. . .

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I hope the format was okay. It took ages to straighten out. I was going to post this tomorrow or the next day, but I have the patience of a small, furry rodent. So, Merry Christmas, and thanks for reading!


	8. Return of the King

**December 15****th****, 2003, Kalkaska, Michigan**

It didn't really surprise Dean when his phone went off in the middle of interviewing Ted Fisher, the latest victim's older brother, but it did irritate the crap out of him.

"If you'll excuse me," he said with a brittle smile, taking a step away and flipping the phone open. "This is Ranger Frehley."

"Howdy, Ranger," purred a low voice on the other end of the line.

"Faith?" Of course. Only she could have this terrible of timing.

"You got a minute?"

Dean held up his hand, fingers outspread. "Sorry. Just a moment," he mouthed to Ted. The hunter stepped outside to the cold front porch. He shoved his free hand into his coat pocket. It was _freezing_. Five days on this case, and it was becoming very clear why John preferred to avoid Northern Michigan during December.

"What'd you need, Faith?"

"Where are you right now, _Ranger_?"

"Working a job. Black dog problem. Lots of teethmarks, lots of forest up here."

"So Ranger Dean comes to the rescue?"

Chuckling in spite of himself, Dean nodded. "Right. Look, this isn't really a good time. Did you need something?"

Faith paused. "When'll you be finished up?"

"Couple days, give or take. Why?"

Another long moment of hesitation. "Think you could get to Cleveland by the seventeenth?"

"Maybe. What's going on?"

The Slayer sighed. "This is dumb," she said, sounding embarrassed.

"Don't got a lot of time here, Faith. Spit it out."

"If you wrap up in time, want to come up and spend the weekend? That new Lord of the Rings movie comes out on Wednesday, and I _can't_ go see it with Andrew."

"Too much nerd talk?"

"Exactly. Plus, my birthday was yesterday, and Andrew wants to throw a party. If I tell him you're coming, I might be able to postpone the damn thing forever."

"Happy birthday," Dean replied absently, switching the phone to his other ear and tucking his frozen hand into his pocket.

"Thanks. So . . . whatcha say?"

"Welll…" he let the word drag out. "I'm not huge on nerd movies."

Faith laughed. "Liar. You rescue me from Andrew, and I might let you cash in that raincheck you keep asking about."

The hunter grinned. "I'll call you when I wrap up here. Gotta get back to work."

"Knew that'd convince you. Man-slut."

"Faithie." He wasn't entirely sure why, but the nickname possessed the remarkable ability of getting Faith to shut the hell up.

It worked this time. "Whatever. If I don't hear from you in two days, offer's gone."

"Mmm. Keep your nose clean."

"Good luck with your doggie problem." _Click_.

Dean gave himself a few seconds to let the wide grin dissolve from his face, then headed back into the house.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Fisher. That was my partner back at the station. I've got just a few more questions. Was there anyone with a grudge against your sister?"

* * *

><p><strong>December 17<strong>**th****, 2003, Grayling, Michigan**

Damn, but it was good to leave another small town behind him. Another job completed, another monster permanently grounded, another group of people left alive to put the pieces of their world back together. Another open highway in front of him. Both the heater and the stereo in the Impala were working. And a girl waiting for him in the next state over. This, _this_, was how life ought to be.

The fingers of one hand loosely curled over the top of the steering wheel, Dean grabbed his phone from the passenger seat and dialed Faith. It was probably a good idea to check in with her before he got too far along the road.

As usual, it took several rings for her to answer. "Dean?"

"On my way."

She didn't sound a bit surprised. "ETA?"

"Five and a half hours. Should be there by four. What're the roads like in Ohio?"

"Not too bad? There's snow, but most of it's piled on the shoulder. Do you need the address?"

"Text it to me . . . I _hate_ winter."

"Ha. Yeah. Makes me miss California – and I _never_ thought I'd say that. Movie tickets?"

"If you buy 'em – and I'm gonna want popcorn."

"Nice to know you're a cheap date."

"That sarcasm?"

"Never," Faith replied earnestly. "Never. Four o'clock?"

"Four o'clock."

"Lookin' forward to it." _Click._

Dean found himself smirking as he scrolled through his recent calls and dialed his father's number. Might as well use the time to explain this last case to his dad and tell him that he'd be in Ohio for the rest of the week. Of course, he'd leave out the specifics of Ohio. John knew about his son's Vampire Slayer contact, but he definitely didn't need to know the extent of Dean's Vampire Slayer contact.

It wasn't lying. Leaving out the extra, unnecessary details. Dean never lied to John Winchester. This was just . . . not mentioning the bits his dad wasn't interested in. That didn't count as lying. Not at all.

* * *

><p>Cleveland, Ohio, was every bit as nasty as he had expected. The gutters and parking lots were piled with mountains of grey snow and ice, and everything looked dirty. It was depressing. Even the Impala seemed affected; she tried to fish-tail on the tighter turns. Dean almost missed the stark emptiness of Kalkaska – until he spotted three liquor stores within five blocks of each other. Now, that was a little more like his kind of town.<p>

The clock on the dashboard read 4:05 when he turned into Faith's apartment complex. After parking in front of the squat brown brick building, the hunter grabbed his duffel and a six-pack from the back seat. No need to bring the extra weaponry in. Faith had made it explicitly clear that this was _not_ a work thing.

His initial knock went unheeded, so Dean checked the address on his phone again. Yep, right apartment number. He knocked a second time, louder, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Ohio was as cold as Michigan. This time, a voice responded. Still, the door remained closed.

Slightly confused, he gave the door knob a try. It was unlocked, and the door swung open easily, revealing the tiled entry, muddy boots piled against the wall.

"Faith?" he called, shutting the door behind him, taking a moment to do up the three deadbolts and the chain. Dean strongly approved of the extra precautions. Once the door was closed, the muffled sound of music and clanging steel became noticeable. Dean glanced inside the kitchen – empty. He set the beer on the counter. "Faith?"

"In here."

Not entirely sure what to expect, Dean proceeded into the living room. "What –"

"Shhh." The figure on the couch waved towards the television screen, where a craggy brunette man leant over a pale, ginger one. "Boromir's dying."

"You're really into this Rings thing, aren't you?"

Faith gestured imperiously to the space next to her. "Shh. Sit."

With a shrug, Dean dropped his duffel onto the off-white carpet. He stepped around the end of the couch and plopped down beside Faith, putting his feet up on the coffee table beside hers. She handed him an unopened beer, its sides dripping condensation.

"Frodo, where is Frodo?" gasped the dying man.

"I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not."

The Slayer stared in wide-eyed fascination and something resembling regret as the prince of Gondor breathed his last. "I always hate this part," she commented when the rugged Strider kissed the other man's forehead, apparently ending the mandatory silence.

"And why's that?"

"If you ask Andrew, I hate it because Boromir's redemption story is extremely short, condensed, and ends with his death." Faith lifted her own beer bottle in an informal salute. She continued in a terrible British accent, "Further, it is the first meaningful death of the series and illustrates both the concepts that few are incorruptible and also that no one escapes unscathed or without loss on a quest to save the world."

Popping the cap off his beer, Dean raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You memorize that or what?"

"After the fifth time, it kinda starts sticking in your head…. How was the drive?"

"Fine." The hunter took another sip, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He glanced away from the hobbits on screen to give the Slayer a discreet once over. "You look good."

Credits started rolling. Faith stood and stretched. The hem of her t-shirt rose several inches above her jeans, displaying a flat stomach etched with muscle. And surprisingly tan, for December in Ohio. Dean watched in appreciation.

"Just good?" Faith teased, noticing his gaze. She rolled her shoulders backwards, arms extended above her head, fingers laced together. This had the effect of pushing her chest into prominence. Quite enjoying herself, she held the stretch for a long moment before dropping the pose and shaking her shoulders loose. "Like the view?"

"Mmm." Given the invitation to objectify, Dean decided to take advantage. He slid his eyes over every inch of her body, starting at Faith's white socks and working his way up. By the time they made eye contact, her face was flushed dark pink. The hunter smiled. "Best I've seen all day."

The Slayer stepped over his legs, taking her empty beer bottle to the trash can. "The best all day?" she asked in a tone dripping with fake hurt. "I must be slipping. What is it, Dean? You can be honest."

"Well…" Dean followed her into the kitchen. "This whole clothes thing you've got going on just isn't doing it for me," he complained jokingly, leaning against the doorframe.

In retaliation, Faith picked up the six-pack he'd left on the counter and moved it to the refrigerator. Sliding it onto the bottom shelf, she bent over at a very particular angle that emphasized her assets. "And here I was expecting some comment about preferring blondes," she muttered under her breath.

Standing, she closed the refrigerator door and moved across the kitchen. "Oh? How should I fix that, then?" She paused at the outskirts of Dean's personal space bubble. "Got any . . . ideas?" Her dark brown eyes met his and held them.

The hunter's voice dropped lower. "I can think of a few. Might have to miss that movie of yours, though."

She shrugged in response. "Could always see it tomorrow . . . or the day after."

"I like the way you think."

"Do you?" Her tone was light, lilting. Faith leaned in slightly. "What am I thinking, Dean?" she whispered inches from his ear.

Just then, the doorbell rang. The Slayer stepped backwards, flirtatiousness disappearing. "And that'll be the pizza man," she called over her shoulder, going to answer the door. "Do you mind rewinding the tape? I thought we could stick the next one in and watch it – Andrew got us tickets for a 9:00 showing of the third one."

Swallowing, Dean took a second to regain his composure. "On it," he called back, retreating to the living room and the VHS player. He listened with one ear to the whirring of the machine and with the other to the brief exchange of dialogue and laughter going on at the front door, still somewhat disconcerted. What had just happened?

Faith joined him a moment later, balancing a pizza box in one hand and a stack of napkins and a large water glass in the other. "You like pepperoni?" She set the pizza, napkins, and water down on the coffee table. "I wasn't sure."

He decided not to look away from the VCR. He needed just another minute and used switching out the VHS tapes as an excuse. "Pepperoni's good."

Composure finally regained, Dean resumed his spot on the couch and started divvying up the pizza. Taking two slices in a napkin, Faith hit 'Play.' She settled herself next to him, eyeing the grease soaking through the paper with a faint smile, then elbowed Dean. "It's nice to know you can count on the little things to stay constant." Faith nodded at the napkin.

"Like?" His eyes flickered between the girl and the snow-covered mountains onscreen.

"Greasy pizza. Cold beer. Little things like that let you know the world's still running straight."

Dean glanced down at her, startled. "How old are you?" he asked around a mouthful of pepperoni.

"Twenty-three. Why?"

He hesitated, taking his time with the phrasing, watching the wizard plummet through the air. Dean didn't really have words for the thoughts beginning to take form, half-expressed, in the back of his mind. It didn't usually take him long to get a bead on most people, but there was something off about Faith. She switched frequently between masks, and Dean still wasn't sure he had seen the real girl hiding behind them. And yet . . .

"What do you think it would take to kill a Balrog?" Faith wondered, having abandoned her earlier question.

Grateful for the change of subject, he squinted at the boss fight on the television. "In the movie universe, or in ours?"

"Ours."

"Some serious mojo."

"C'mon, Dean. Get creative. You're gonna be in a fight to the death with a Balrog. What do you take with you?"

* * *

><p>They steadily ate their way through the entire pizza, unable to go through more than ten minutes' of film without commenting on some aspect of the filmmaking. The two dissected fight scene choreography, stopping and rewinding the movie to emphasize a particular point. Along with debating the merits of Elven vs. Rohirric weaponry, they swore bitterly when Haldir died.<p>

An hour in, Faith paused the movie while Dean grabbed a few guns out of the Impala. For the rest of the film, he cleaned firearms, and she sharpened blades. It was weirdly domestic.

Eight-thirty arrived, and Faith insisted they take her car to the theater. Dean agreed reluctantly, with one proviso: she let him drive.

"Fine. Have it your way," she grumbled, tugging her black pea coat over one arm, then tossing him the keys to her '98 Dodge Intrepid.

"If this is a date, shouldn't I be driving?" he grinned.

The Slayer rolled her eyes. "Oh, this's a date, is it? News to me. You'd better start opening doors, then."

Dean's grin widened. "Does this mean I get to hold your hand?"

Mouthing something quasi-obscene, she shooed him out of the apartment. "Get moving, Romeo."

The theater was packed. Faith and Dean were very relieved that Andrew had already delivered their tickets and that they didn't have to go to the back of the giant lines. They slipped inside the theater, bought a giant popcorn, and found two seats near the back of the theater. After a brief, intense whispered discussion about who got the aisle seat, Faith slid into the row first.

"What you got on you?" she hissed as the first trailer started, glancing around the four corners of the room, searching for Exit signs.

"Knife," Dean replied quietly, recognizing the behavior. "You?"

"Stake . . . and knife."

"I thought the point of today was to take off work?"

Faith chuckled softly in his ear. "Hunter, Slayer. You're never 100% off."

"Fai – "

"Shh. It's starting."

_Return of the King_ was, well, to be frank, frigging _fantastic_. Except for the marathon endings, which Dean wouldn't have minded skipping, he enjoyed nearly every one of its two hundred and one minutes. Around the time that Young Hobbit started singing and the little ginger brother rode to his oncoming death, he reached across and took Faith's hand. To his surprise, she didn't pull away. Not then, and not until Annie Lennox sang at the end.

On the drive back to her apartment, they discussed which characters sucked the most (both chose Denethor); whose fighting style was coolest (despite Legolas's pretty tricks, it was unanimously Aragorn); and which villain was the most bad-ss as represented on screen (Faith voted for the Nazgûl king and his dragon-chicken, but Dean claimed that the giant Shelob spider was much, much, much scarier).

At the complex, he parked the Dodge carefully next to the Impala and then checked one last time to make sure Baby was locked before heading inside after the Slayer. Walking in, Dean saw Faith's coat already hung on a hook. One of her boots was strewn halfway between the front door and the living room, with the other lying unceremoniously on the carpet. Dean followed the trail of scarf, gloves, stake, knife, socks, and belt across the living room.

"Hey."

The hunter looked up to see the Slayer standing in the hallway. Eyes locked on his, she reached down and pulled her tee-shirt up and over her head, revealing the black bra beneath.

"Dean," she said conversationally, letting the shirt fall to the floor. "You know, this whole clothes thing you've got going on just isn't doing it for me."

"Oh?" Dean shrugged off his button-up. "Got any ideas on how to fix that?"

Faith took a step forward. "I might have a couple." She raised an eyebrow in challenge. "How do you feel about role-play?"

* * *

><p>Waking up without threats of imminent danger tended to be a process for Faith. Her dreams would fade to black. Slowly, awareness of other senses would trickle in. This morning, the first thing she noticed was the horrible, fuzzy taste in her mouth. Next, the warmth of another person's leg touching hers. Then, the quiet noise of that someone's steady breathing. Finally, Faith opened her eyes and rolled over to see the shirtless man sharing her bed.<p>

_Damn,_ but he was beautiful. It was almost enough to make up for how grungy she felt. The Slayer traced every exposed inch of the man's chest, arms, and face with her eyes, remembering. If last night was proof of how things could go if you slept with the same guy twice, she might have to reconsider her one-night-and-done rule. And, best of all, today, there would be no rush to gather her clothes and slip out the door to escape an awkward goodbye.

Faith hated those goodbyes, when people suddenly got all clingy. One-nighters were never the start to some great romance. That only happened in movies, not real life. Why was it that she, the Slayer with the arguably tenuous grip on reality, was the only one who got this?

"Morning," said a pleasantly low, rumbling voice.

Glancing up from her absent-minded study of his pectorals, the woman looked into a pair of sleepy green eyes. "Morning," she croaked in response, smiling despite herself. "What time is it?"

Yawning, Dean threw an arm out to the desk without looking and fumbled for his phone. Fingers closing around a reasonably sized piece of plastic and metal, he flipped it open and winced at the bright screen in the dim bedroom. "Two . . . in the afternoon."

"Oh, G-d." She attempted to sit up, but it was much colder outside of the covers, and she ended up just scooting closer to the warmth that was Dean. The hunter wrapped an arm around her, pulling her even nearer, so that her head was resting on his shoulder. "We really should get up," she said groggily.

"You don't sound convinced." He was rubbing a hand up and down her arm, and it was oddly comforting. Faith could feel herself drifting back off to sleep. It was just so damn comfortable and warm here.

She struggled to rally. "No. We should. We really, really should." Faith blinked hazily, forcing herself to focus. Her eyes caught on the gold amulet that he was always wearing, and she reached out with one hand to touch the thing. It looked like the head of some tribal god, or maybe a monster.

"What's this?" she asked. "Protective charm?"

"Something like that." He paused, then continued, "My little brother gave it to me when we were kids."

"What's little bro's name, again?"

"Sam."

"Mmm." Faith pulled her hand back away from the amulet and let it rest on the hunter's chest. "Bet he's a cute kid. You know what name's really sexy?"

"What's that?"

"Dean."

He laughed. "Sure it is. You're just trying to get me to sleep with you again."

Smirking, the Slayer propped herself up on her elbows, bringing their faces closer together. "Well, is it working?"

Dean leaned forward as if he were going to kiss her, but turned his head at the last minute so that their lips barely brushed. "Keep trying," he said into her ear.

Faith grinned wickedly. "You sure you want me to do that? We might never get out of this bed."

"Fine by me," he said with a shrug.

Well, this could get interesting. She stared into those green eyes for a long moment, biting her lip slightly as she planned her next move.

_Ring! Ring! Ring!_

"One second." Dean rolled over and grabbed his phone again. "Hello?"

A deep voice barked something on the other end of the line, and the hunter's demeanor changed entirely. He sat up rigidly in the bed, then stood and started dressing. Faith listened to the uh-huh's and yessir's, watching the man pull on yesterday's clothes with a faint sense of regret. Dean's fingers fairly flew as he did up his fly. Pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear, he rethreaded his belt through the loops on his jeans and buckled it, tight. Then it was over the head with his t-shirt and out of the room for the rest of his things.

Curious, the Slayer wrapped the comforter around herself and followed him out into the living room. She observed as Dean put on his work boots without bothering to undo the laces first, hopping on one foot while trying to shove the other in through the narrow aperture.

Partway through the second boot, he paused and stood up straighter. The ensuing "Yes, sir" sounded more final than the others. It was immediately succeeded by another. "Yes, sir. Goodbye."

"Duty calls?" the Slayer asked casually, walking in front of the couch. She started to gather the weapons he'd been cleaning the night before into her arms. "Where do you want these?"

Once again struggling with his shoe, Dean nodded his head towards his ratty olive green duffel. "Bodies found in a locked room in Galveston, Texas. Door was locked from the inside, and it looks like some kind of ritualized killing – blood sigils everywhere." He swore at the uncooperative boot. "I should have been on the road three hours ago."

Faith maneuvered her load of firearms around the furniture and set them down in front of the bag. Kneeling down, she unzipped the duffel and began setting the handguns inside it. Her comforter slipped an inch or two and attempted to fall open at the front. She tugged the blanket back into position and held it there with her left arm. "That your dad?"

"Yeah," he answered shortly. Footgear finally on, the hunter stepped over to her just as she zipped the bag shut. Extending a hand, he pulled the woman to her feet before reaching down to the duffel's strap and his shotgun. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

Giving the room a final, cursory glance, he shrugged the duffel over his shoulder and grabbed his leather jacket off of the back of the couch. "Think that's it, but if I left something . . ."

"I can mail it or hold onto it until you're back in the area."

"Thanks," Dean repeated, pulling his keys out of his jacket pocket. He fumbled uncharacteristically with them for a few seconds when they reached the front door. This hadn't been his usual overnight, and he didn't think his usual "That was great. I'll call you." would work here.

Thankfully, Faith didn't appear to have similar reservations. "I'm headed back to bed," she said, opening the door for him with a smile. "Maybe get some sleep this time. Drive safe. Have fun with your monsters."

It was, he realized in relief, one of their typical phone sendoffs, which generally were variations of: _Good luck. Take care. Don't die. _He grinned back at her. "Give those vampires hell."

"You know it."

And then he was out the door, hurrying to the Impala, hearing the loud clicks as Faith locked up the three deadbolts. Dean tossed his bag and the shotgun into the back seat and slid behind the wheel. Turning the key in the ignition, he found himself almost hoping that he had left something behind. It would give him an excuse to return.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This ended up being a bit longer than intended, but I couldn't find a good place to divide it. Consider it an early New Year's present. Thanks for reading! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts. Is there anything you'd like to see in the story as it goes forwards?

Happy New Year!  
>AiH<p> 


	9. A Haunting We Will Go, pt 1

**January 20****th****, 2004 Cleveland, Ohio**

"And that's it! Let's call it a day, ladies." Faith extended her hand and pulled the newest Slayer recruit to her feet.

The group of six teenage-ish girls all stopped exchanging blows and began to chatter excitedly. Some grabbed antiseptic wipes and started to clean the mats. While they were doing this, two others gathered the practice staves and packed them away in their gym bags. Robin had managed to reserve this room in a boxing gym three nights a week under guise of them being a self-defense class run by a local church. As such, it was best to keep the quarterstaves, swords, and all sharp-edged things safely unseen.

Faith currently trained the Slayerettes on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Occasionally, she dropped by on Saturday afternoons to check on things before patrolling. It wasn't the most challenging workout for her, but, if it kept the younger ones out of trouble, hey, it was worth it.

That said, she hadn't quite realized how much emotional counseling and coddling accompanied this job. This could be very perplexing, because Faith did not consider herself a good person to go to for advice. And yet, these girls, even the ones who had heard whispers of the sordid Rogue Slayer story, kept coming to her with questions about boyfriends and parents and time management. It was rather disconcerting.

Her last sparring partner, Lily - blonde, sixteen, slightly overweight, and obsessed with musical theater - brushed a lock of sweaty hair out of her eyes. "How am I doing?" she asked worriedly.

"Not bad for only doing this for two weeks," the Slayer told her. Faith walked to the edge of the mat and retrieved her water bottle, downing half in one swallow. Damn, she was thirsty. Ninety minutes of eight women fighting in the boxing gym's spare room, and the concept of air conditioning just something of the imagination. "You could use some work on your cardio fitness. Do you run at all?"

Lily followed, picking up her own grungy green plastic bottle on the way. "I find running boring," she confessed sheepishly.

The older woman laughed. "Yeah, it can be. Until you're being chased by something nasty with teeth, and the only thing that can get you to safety is your own two legs. Can you run a mile?"

Chagrinned, Lily shook her head. "No. Maybe a quarter mile?"

"Then start there. Run at least a quarter mile every day this week. We'll talk again next Tuesday, and see if you can up it then, all right?" As she talked, Faith pulled a sweater out of her backpack and zipped it on. She dug in the bottom of the bag for her car keys.

"Okay." The girl turned to leave, then stopped. "Thanks, Faith. For being so nice about this."

Glancing up from her search, Faith stifled her feeling of surprise and saved it for later examination. "It's a rough transition." Finally finding her key ring, she slid her water bottle into her bag and slipped it over one shoulder. "You'll get there."

The blonde opened her mouth to say something else, but was cut off by the shrill ringing of Faith's cell phone.

With an apologetic shrug, the older Slayer whipped her phone out of her pocket, flipped it open, and checked the caller ID. "Sorry, Lily." Faith tried to hide her relief at escaping further emotional moments. "I've got to take this."

Stepping away from the gaggle of girls, she punched the 'accept call' button. "Dean?"

"Faith. Any chance you could blow off your plans for the rest of the week? I've got a potential job in Pennsylvania, and I think you might be able to help me with it."

She waved the younger Slayers out of the room ahead of her, mouthing that she would see them later. "Vampires?"

"Mmm, doesn't look like it. A haunting, maybe."

That sounded interested. Faith tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she locked the gym door and hurried to her car. Honestly, perhaps she should have packed more than a light sweatshirt. "One of your things, then?"

"Yeah. Want to see how hunters do it?"

Starting the car, the Slayer tried to keep her chattering teeth silent. "Sure. Nothing going on here that I can't get away from, anyway."

"Good. I'll be there in an hour. Can you be ready?"

"Not a problem. See you then."

"Bye."

Tearing out of the parking lot in her Dodge, Faith sped home as quickly as she could. An hour would be cutting it close for driving, packing a bag, and taking a shower, but she would have to make it work. After all, there was not a snowflake's chance in hell of her climbing into a small car for several hours without a long, hot shower beforehand to de-grungify.

* * *

><p>Dean was relieved to see the Slayer standing outside her apartment when he pulled up in the Impala. It was already well after six o'clock. Even with breaking every speed limit between Cleveland and Wrightsville, they wouldn't be able to get there until nearly midnight.<p>

It was good to see her, he thought, reaching across the front seat to unlock the passenger side door, although he never would have said that aloud. She was straightforward, and he liked that. Faith tossed her backpack into the back seat and slid in afterwards. She closed the door to the Impala and drew her seatbelt across her lap before turning to look at him.

"Hey, stranger."

"Slayer." Dean tipped an imaginary cowboy hat. Shifting the Impala into reverse, he backed the car out of the parking lot and headed for I-90.

Faith buckled her seat belt and adjusted her winter clothing. It was nice and cozy inside the car, and so her gloves and scarf came off in quick succession. "Where we headed? You mentioned Pennsylvania . . . ?"

Eyes on the dark road, he nodded. "Yeah. Wrightsville. In the last ten years or so, three waitresses have been murdered outside this old restaurant, the Accomac Inn. Same M.O. every time – girls are the last ones closing up the restaurant at night, and they get found the next morning with their throats slit."

"Sure that's a supernatural thing?" Faith used the question as an excuse to look at him. Even in the dim light reflected back into the car from the headlights, he was still ridiculously pretty. You just didn't get guys that attractive in the dingy Cleveland bars she'd been hanging out in lately. Not by a long shot. "Sounds kind of like a serial killer thing."

Dean shrugged. "You could be right," he admitted, "but in some of the older states – Pennsylvania, Virginia, New York, some of the New England ones – it's like every little one stoplight town has its own ghost – or legend of a ghost, anyway. A friend of my dad's – guy named Caleb – called yesterday and told us about it. The ghost – or the killer – struck again Sunday night."

"And your dad thought you should check it out?"

"Thought _we_ should check it out."

"_We_? Your dad knows about me?"

Dean sniggered at that one. "He's not the kind of person you keep things from. Tried that a couple times when I was a teenager . . . learned that lesson. Naw, he needed to stay in South Dakota to finish up our job there, so he sent me on. Suggested I take you with me, if you were interested. I gotta admit, since I met you, he's gotten really curious about that Watcher's Council of yours and how it all works."

"Works is an overstatement," Faith replied dryly. On the inside, her mind raced. She was rather fond of her anonymity and disliked the idea of strangers knowing things about her.

Somehow, the hunter must have sensed her reticence. He turned on the radio, and Kansas's "Dust in the Wind" filled the car.

"You know," the girl mused after the first chorus, "this is kind of my song."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She closed her eyes and hummed along with a few bars. "I don't really believe in an 'after'-this. Things are here, and then they're gone . . . and when they're gone, they're gone permanently. Like they'd never been. Like . . . like . . ."

"Like dust in the wind?" Dean suggested with a chuckle.

The Slayer grinned at him. "Exactly." She stared out the window at the Cleveland as it flashed past. "How about you? What do you believe in?"

"Kinda a deep conversation, don't you think?"

"I don't know about that," she said lightly. "I'm a Slayer. You're a hunter. We deal in life and death, don't we? You must have thought about it at some point."

Dean shook his head. "Not really, no. I'm too busy kicking ass and taking names, saving hot chicks – you know, doing stuff."

"Mmm. _Stuff_. Super important, that stuff." Faith continued her gazing out the window. After a few minutes and two other Kansas songs, she tugged off her coat and draped it across her front like a blanket. "You need me to stay awake? Navigate, or something?"

"Nah. It's pretty much a straight shot. I'll wake you when we get there."

Her eyes widened, and something worried flashed in their brown depths. "Call my name first. Before you touch me."

"Okay." The man reached his right arm around and behind his seat into the back floorboard. His fingers closed around the sleeve of a rough leather jacket, and he dragged it forwards. "Here." He dropped the jacket into Faith's lap. "Sleeping against that door can twist your neck around. My brother used to always steal my coat when I wasn't looking and use it as a pillow. You, uh, can do the same, if you want."

Faith recognized the leather jacket. "Thanks. Me and this coat go way back."

"Huh?"

"Remember that night you got into a bar fight and crashed at my place?"

"You mean the time when you found a handsome man in an alleyway and decided to kidnap him?"

"Hehe. Something like that. You were wearing this then." She carefully folded the jacket into a neat square and tucked it between her head and the car window. "Night, Dean," she said with fake cheeriness. Closing her eyes, the Slayer drifted off to the sounds of a purring engine, classic rock, and Dean beating a quiet tattoo on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

This was by no means his first time making a long drive with a sleeping passenger. He dialed the stereo down a couple of notches and left the map open on the bench seat between them, keeping the Impala smooth as he passed eighteen-wheelers and sedans on the Interstate.

From time to time, looking over his shoulder to merge right, he checked on the sleeping girl. Faith had curled up in the seat, tucking her feet beneath her, getting her boots all over the leather upholstery. Well, at least she didn't snore.

It was nearly an hour later when, moving back over after speeding past three eighteen-wheelers in a row, that he noticed the shivering. At first, Dean didn't think much of it. He cranked the heater up a little and pulled Faith's peacoat back up over her shoulders. Five minutes after that, passing a green minivan covered in bumper stickers, he saw that the shivering hadn't stopped. If anything, it was worse.

Looking more closely, Dean realized that her mouth was moving. He killed the music to listen. She was whimpering, barely audible over the noise of the engine. It was a high-pitched sound, a surprising contrast to her normally alto voice. Hunter brain working overtime, the man added two and two together and came up with nightmares. Hmm. Perhaps Slayer life wasn't as casual and carefree as Faith tried to make it seem.

"Faith," he said, quietly at first, then louder. "Faith. Hey, Faith. Wake up." He touched her arm gently.

The Slayer jerked nearly out of her seat. She was instantly awake. Momentarily confused, Faith shook her head and glanced around wildly at her surroundings. Within seconds, she remembered where she was and relaxed visibly. "What's up?" she asked groggily, leaning her head against the leather jacket and the window again.

"I'm getting pretty tired," Dean lied. "Been a long drive from Dakota. Talk to me?"

"Unnnhhh. What do you want to talk about?"

"How did you find out you were a Slayer? What was that like?"

Faith groaned. "Really?"

"Yeah." Dean faked a yawn. "Can't keep my eyes open. Tell me more about Slayers?"

"Ugh. Okay. I was seventeen when it started." She stopped there, trying to decide how much to share and how much to conceal.

"When what started?"

"The dreams . . . "

* * *

><p>It was pushing 12:30 when they finally hit York, the city adjacent to Wrightsville, stopping only for gas and a few bags of chips. They pulled up outside the Lincoln Lodge, a one-story red brick motel. Shoving her arms back through the sleeves of her coat, Faith jumped out of the Impala and hurried towards the motel's front office with its dimly lit sign. She stepped inside the dingy room and rang the bell at the counter until a balding middle-aged man appeared.<p>

"Can I help you, miss?" The tip of his long nose twitched slightly as he talked, and he wore a red hooded sweatshirt with a large red and blue 'P' on it, a tarnished name tag saying "Dan" pinned to his left shoulder. Dan looked his potential customer up and down, but Faith was currently at her least sketchy – winter outerwear and a lack of sleep could hide a multiple of vices.

"Hi, Dan." Faith attempted friendliness, despite her exhaustion. "Saw your vacancy sign. I need one room, two queens, for the next couple of nights."

Dan wasn't quite that easy to win over. "We take Visa and Mastercard," he said pointedly.

Faking a smile, the Slayer fished her wallet from her back pocket and and brandished a shiny new Visa. Thanks to Giles, she now had a lovely Watcher's Council expense card, to use on official Slayer business. She rarely touched the thing, except to buy new quarrels for her crossbow, but this seemed as good a time as any.

"Can I see some ID?"

Her newly acquired driver's license joined the credit card on the grimy counter. The hotel manager picked up the two cards and examined the signatures on them. Then he glanced back and forth between the license and the woman. Returning the ID, he added grudgingly, "Can never be too careful, you know."

"Mmm." Faith kept her smile fixed in place.

"That'll be $120 for the two nights, or $250 to see you till the end of the week."

"End of the week is good."

"Mmph." Dan swiped the Visa and printed a bill. He placed it on the counter for her to sign. "Check out is at eleven. We don't do breakfast here, but there's a couple of restaurants nearby that open around six. Wifi password can be found near the television in the room. How many room keys?"

"Two."

"Here you go, then. Room 117. You need anything, extra towels or a maintenance problem, just call the front desk. There's always someone here."

"Thanks. Have a nice evening."

"Uh-huh. You, too."

Tucking the credit card and room keys into her pocket, Faith braved the cold once more. She ran across the parking lot back to the Impala and climbed in.

"All set?"

"Room 117. Other side of the building."

Dean shifted the car out of park. "Awesome."

He drove around and took the spot closest to their room. Grabbing their bags out of the back, he followed Faith, waiting while she fumbled with the room key, trying to figure out which direction was up. It took her four tries before the door finally opened. They stumbled into the motel room, its traditional set up welcoming in its familiarity. Two beds, a television, a few poorly working lamps, a table with two chairs, a mini-fridge, and a bathroom with faded tile. Everything was well-used but clean, and Dean almost felt at home.

Dropping his duffel and Faith's backpack on the carpeted floor, he locked the door behind them. The Slayer had already flung her coat across a chair back and was now sitting on the bed closest to the door and furthest from the television, unlacing her boots.

"I'll take this one," she announced, kicking the shoes off. "You mind if I have the bathroom first?"

The hunter shook his head and tossed her her bag. Faith carried it with her into the bathroom. She emerged five minutes later, having traded her jeans and sweater for plaid flannel pants and a blue UC Sunnydale t-shirt. In her absence, Dean had somehow managed to find a low budget horror movie. He lay sprawled across his bed, still fully dressed, watching a heavily made up Dracula attack a shrieking woman.

"G-d, I'm tired," the Slayer groaned. "It's all yours."

"Thanks." Dean muted the TV and stretched. He dug his pajamas and toothbrush out of his duffel and headed for the bathroom.

Faith waited until Dean was safely out of sight to retrieve a large serrated knife from the depths of her backpack and sneak it underneath her pillow. Then, she tucked the bag and her boots against the nightstand where they could not be a tripping hazard. She slipped between the covers and rolled onto her right side, back towards the bathroom, face towards the door. Pulling the comforter up and over her head, she curled into a ball. By the time Dean finished and came back into the room, she was fast asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **And here we are, off on another adventure! My deepest apologies about the delay - a new semester started, I was really sick, and I wanted to get a certain amount of this episode written on my computer before posting any of it. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading!


	10. A Haunting We Will Go, pt 2

**January 21****st****, 2004 York, Pennsylvania**

"So. You get all of that?" Dean asked around a mouthful of buttermilk pancakes. A drop of golden syrup glistened tauntingly on the upper surface of his top lip. It was crying out for comment, for someone to reach across the table and lick – _flick _– it off. The hunter washed his pancakes down with a swig of coffee, obliterating the tempting syrup forever.

"Think so. Research never ends." Faith glanced at the remnants of her own breakfast: eggs, bacon, and toast. The half-eaten eggs had congealed together in a gloppy, yellow, yolky mess, seeping through the adjacent toast and slowly turning it to mush. She brushed a slice of bacon through the pool of yolk and bit down on it with a satisfying crunch. Maybe it was gross – Buffy or Angel definitely would have complained – but food was food.

Dean appeared supremely unconcerned with her diner etiquette. "Any questions?" He stuffed another giant forkful of pancake into his mouth.

The Slayer lowered her voice slightly. Even though the diner was packed with its morning crowd, it was best not to risk the wrong person overhearing what she had to say. "You want a detailed history on this inn, with an emphasis on murder."

Too busy chewing to reply, he nodded.

"Okay. And you're going to check in with the locals and check out the official police report."

"'S right."

"Cool." She reached out for her half-empty coffee cup and drank it down in one go. "Ready when you are, Tex."

"Uhhhh…"

Taking another look at the pile of flapjacks on his plate, Faith snorted and shook her head. "Take your time."

* * *

><p>Hands down, her least favorite part of Slaying was the research. Well… except for the part where she had to work with people. Faith had never been a library person, but there was something different about the book searching this time. Probably because it wasn't Watcher's Council related.<p>

She settled herself in front of a computer at the Wrightsville public library and began the arduous task of Googling every possible combination of the words "Accomac Inn," "murder," and "haunting." To Faith's surprise, her initial search met with several hits. Eyes roaming up and down the screen, she scribbled into a spiral notepad beside the keyboard. Next to each piece of pertinent information, she kept a tally of how many different sites included it.

Apparently, the Accomac Inn was rather renowned locally. In the early 1800s, a man named John Coyle had shot his parents' hired girl in the barn of the building that was now the Accommac Inn. But that was all the various webpages agreed on. Nearly every other aspect of the story was under debate. The girl's name was Molly – no, Emily. One local history website declared that she had been shot with a pistol. Another claimed that it had been a rifle. A third insisted that Molly – Emily – had not been shot at all. Johnny Coyle had stabbed her in the stomach thirteen times.

The purpose of the shooting was also somewhat unclear. In the most commonly shared story, John had been mentally challenged – _slow_, as it had been called in those days – and he had been infatuated with Molly. When Molly tried to let him down gently, he had not understood, due to his mental problems. Finally, the volatile situation had escalated one afternoon in the Coyle barn. John proposed to Molly. When she refused him, he lost it and killed her in rage. Still other versions of the legend had John attempting to kiss Molly and murdering her after being turned down.

John Coyle's story didn't stop there. The path to justice for Molly/Emily's death had taken two trials, one acquittal by the Supreme Court, and multiple claims of insanity as defense. Finally, three years after the death, John was hanged. The people in the town of Marietta had been so outraged by Emily's murder that they refused to allow him burial in the local cemetery. Instead, John was interred on his father's homestead, several hundred yards from the barn where he had killed Emily. According to the legend, John's father had slept on the grave for several nights after, to prevent its being vandalized by grave robbers.

Two hours into her search, Faith set her pen down and shook her hands out. Her fingers and wrist were starting to cramp. The Slayer leaned backwards in her chair, tilting her chin up to the ceiling, feeling the stretch on her throat. She rolled her head around slowly, giving her neck muscles a chance to relax. Two violent deaths at the location in question, one of them buried on the premises. It was a good start.

Finished stretching, she checked the texts on her cell phone, making sure it was still set on silent. She had five. One from Andrew, excitedly telling her that he was leaving on a mission to L.A. and wondering if she had any messages for Angel, Wesley, and Spike. Faith fired off a quick response, asking him to tell the L.A. gang that she said 'hi.' She took a moment and made a mental note to call Wesley when she got back to Cleveland, see how her two favorite vampires were handling living in the same city again.

The second message was from Robin. Only Faith's Slayer professionalism kept her from deleting it unread. Once she read the text, she wished that she had. It was short, blunt, and angry, demanding to know where the hell she had been last night, and why she hadn't shown up for weekly patrol assignments. She texted back, "On a case for Giles," and then hurriedly sent Giles an email in London explaining that she needed him to cover for her.

Moments like these were why Faith occasionally flirted with the idea of quitting Slaying. She loved hunting things, fighting things, _Slaying_ things – there wasn't really anything that came close to making her feel alive the way Slaying did. But the bureaucracy and, worse, having to explain herself to people like Robin, drove her half-mad with frustration.

Mood thoroughly soured, she looked at the third text to see a question about the value of kickboxing versus judo from one of the older Slayerettes, Becka. "For fitness or for fighting?" she replied.

The final two messages were from Dean. _Finally_. Faith was starting to get rather bored with her search. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep at it without further direction. The first message had been sent an hour ago. It said simply, "Got case files from P.D." The second, which had just arrived in the last five minutes, read, "Interviewing restaurant manager in thirty. Plan A is a go."

Well, that was a relief. The Slayer flipped her notebook shut and stood. Her quads groaned in protest. There had been far too much sitting in the last twenty-four hours. She briefly rehearsed her cover story in her head. In case anyone asked, she was a history major from Penn State's York campus doing her senior thesis on the use of the insanity defense in 19th century America. Wes would be proud. Might even give them something to talk about, past their usual ten minutes.

It wasn't too difficult to find an unoccupied librarian. The library was fairly deserted at ten on a Wednesday morning. Faith approached the first mid-fifties woman with frizzy blond hair and a tarnished name tag that she saw and asked about county records.

The librarian, Anne, seemed flattered by the request. She sat Faith down at a large work table in the furthest recesses of the place and told her to wait. Fair enough. Faith opened her spiral to a new page and jotted down her remaining questions to help keep her focus.

_How much of the online stuff is true?_

_Was the girl's name Molly or Emily? Where was she buried?_

_Has anyone ever reported paranormal activity around the Accomac Inn?_

_Were there any other unsolved murders in Wrightsville like this last one earlier than ten years ago?_

Anne returned, lugging a giant filing box. Arms trembling slightly from the effort, she dropped the box onto the table with a thud. "Oops," she giggled nervously. "I always forget how heavy those are."

She took off the lid and began pulling out the box's contents. "I got everything I could think of about the Accomac murder and other insanity defenses in the county. Here's the official case notes from the Pennsylvania Supreme Court for this district, volume 12 – that covers from 1880 to 1885, the time period in question. They started printing these things in the forties, so you'll want to be a bit careful as the binding's fragile."

Faith eyed the thick book in mild terror. "How many pages is it? Roughly?" She tried to keep her voice as casual as possible.

The librarian glanced at the book with a practiced eye. "Five hundred or so. And then there's this – " an even larger book bound in black leather. "Just a quick summary of all felony county cases since 1850. It was compiled by some legal scholar from Penn State in the eighties. Can't remember his name. You might have heard of him?"

Shaking her head quickly, the Slayer said, "'Fraid not. This is the furthest I've ever gotten into the legal stuff."

With a shrug, Anne set the black book beside the other one. "Unfortunately, I don't think this one has an index at the back. And then, there's this." The largest tome of all, featuring a sepia-toned photograph of an old town on the cover. "_Across the River: Murder at Accomac_. This was written just recently by Mike O'Malley, a local historian. If you have any questions once you've finished reading it, I'm sure he'd be delighted to talk to you. I can get you his number, if you like."

"Sure." Faith had to look away from the books, whose presence was starting to fill her with despair. "That would be great, thanks. And do you have archives of the local newspaper? Was there a newspaper in Wrighstville back then?"

Anne smiled. "You're in luck. _The Wrighstville Gazette_ has been publishing weekly editions since 1875. We have paper copies in the basement, of course, but they've also been recently scanned into one of our computers. Come find me when you've finished with these," she indicated the deeply depressing pile of books in front of Faith, "and I'll get you all set up. And I'll go get Mike's phone number for you, before I forget."

"Thanks." The Slayer sighed, then tried a smile of her own. "This might take me days to get through. Can I check any of these out?"

"Not at all!" beamed Anne. "I'm just so glad to have a student interested in researching these things. The Supreme Court case notes are part of our special collections, and so need to stay in the library, but you're welcome to check out either or both of the other two. Just come see me when you're ready, and we'll get you a temporary library card."

"Sweet. I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome, hon." The librarian bustled away towards the front desk, leaving Faith alone with the nightmare reading.

With another sigh, she lifted the Supreme Court book and moved it closer. Damn. Anne hadn't been kidding about it being heavy. The darn thing weighed three pounds if it weighed an ounce. Gingerly, Faith started turning pages. She exhaled in relief when she found the table of contents, which gave page numbers for each year and had subheadings for the important cases.

1882 started at page 192 and went to 250. Sixty pages of what promised to be the driest, most convoluted reading ever. Fan-freakin'-tastic. Faith was beginning to understand why Dean had been so pleased when she hadn't complained about being the one to hit the books. Son of a bitch.

_If I can trick Angelus and give a Turok-Han a smack down, I can do this,_ she championed herself, resolutely turning to page 192. _I don't actually have to read all of this – just skim. But I am _definitely_ asking Giles about speed-reading next time I email him._

It took a full hour before Faith was satisfied with her search of the case notes. Now, she had the official State of Pennsylvania version of the murder, two pages of bullet-points in her notebook about the trial, and another page and a half of doodles.

She approached the librarian again. Unfortunately, Faith explained, she had class at two o'clock and really only had an hour or so left at the library. Could Anne help her check out the other two books and show her the _Gazette_'s archives?

Soon, a thick plastic back containing the carefully wrapped books at her feet, Faith was sitting in front of the archive computer, scrolling through the paper's most recent edition and working her way backwards. She had tried the time-saving Ctrl + F with no luck. She was going to have scroll through each issue separately.

This blew. Faith kind of almost wished that Willow were there to do the searching for her. It would go so much faster. But that would mean actually dealing with Willow. On second thought, perhaps it was best that it was just her.

Half an hour later, the Slayer had worked her way through ten years' worth of the _Gazette_, beginning with last week's publication_. _In that time, there had been three murders of young women near the Accomac Inn. She copied down the manner of death for each girl, including weapon, time of day that the death occurred, and any other interesting details. It wasn't until the third murder, in 1993, that Faith saw a pattern.

The _Gazette _had included recent pictures of the murder victims in the articles. The three dead girls – Louise Hancock, Amy Bingham, and Jess Taylor – had all been brunettes in their early twenties. Pretty, dark-haired, slender-faced girls with dark eyes. Girls who looked a decent lot like her. Realization hit with a jolt. Faith sank back in her chair, a wry smile finding its way to her lips.

_Well played, Dean Winchester_. _Well played._

* * *

><p><strong>To: 2135556081<strong>

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 1:15 p.m.**

**Message:**

Lunch?

. . . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135556081**

**Time: 1:17 p.m.**

**Message:**

Thought you'd never ask.

. . .

**To: 2135556081**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 1:20 p.m.**

**Message:**

You about finished up?

. . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135556081**

**Time: 1:22 p.m.**

**Message:**

More or less. ETA?

. . .

**To: 2135556081**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 1:25 p.m.**

**Message:**

Half an hour?

. . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135556081**

**Time: 1:30 p.m.**

**Message:**

Good. Starving.

. . .

**To: 2135556081**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 1:35 p.m.**

**Message:**

You find anything?

. . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135556081**

**Time: 1:38 p.m.**

**Message:**

:)

. . .

**To: 2135558061**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 1:40 p.m.**

**Message:**

That mean yes?

. . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135556081**

**Time: 1:45 p.m.**

**Message:**

Buy me lunch, and maybe I'll tell you.

. . .

**To: 2135556081**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 1:47 p.m.**

**Message:**

That's not how this works.

. . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135556081**

**Time: 1:50 p.m.**

**Message:**

You're dealing with a Slayer now. That is how this works.

. . .

**To: 2135556081**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 2:00 p.m.**

**Message:**

Here. Come on out.

. . .

* * *

><p>Faith opened the door to the Impala and was greeted by the smell of hot grease. As she dumped her research materials into the back seat, she said a silent prayer of thanks to the fast food gods. Her stomach gurgled loudly.<p>

"Kentucky Fried?" Dean passed over a half-full bucket of glorious crispy brown deliciousness.

Napkin-less and carefree, she grabbed a drumstick and started eating, more focused on efficiency than etiquette. The drumstick was soon followed by a thigh. "G-d, I love you," she announced, digging in the bucket once again for her third piece of chicken.

He snatched the KFC back. Flattery notwithstanding, he couldn't let the girl eat both his lunch and hers. "Hungry much?"

"I went on a run this morning."

"You went on a run. Here?"

"It was only a couple of miles. You were sleeping, so I just snuck out and snuck back in. I was real quiet. You mumble in your sleep – did you know that?" Faith reached over Dean's arm for another drumstick. "Napkins?"

"I say anything interesting?"

"Too mumbly to tell. Napkins?"

"In the bag." He gestured towards a grease-splattered brown paper bag at her feet.

"Mmm. 'Fanks." The Slayer rummaged in the sack for napkins. Encountering a smaller, white paper bag inside of the brown one, she tore it open excitedly to reveal four gorgeous Southern biscuits. "And you even thought to bring dessert. Hmm. You must be buttering me up for something. Get it?" She brandished a biscuit and a condiment packet of honey butter. "_Butter-_ing?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "That the type of humor they teach you in Slayer school?"

"Oh, we don't need to go to school," Faith replied earnestly. The biscuit in her hands was begging to be eaten, and Faith, well, she didn't have the heart to resist. She split the biscuit in half and slathered it with honey butter. The butter melted into the bread, leaving a glistening golden trail in its wake. "We're just naturally this amazing." She smirked before taking a giant bite. "Biscuit?" she offered through a gobful of the Colonel's best.

"Later. What'd you find out?"

Faith swallowed. "Murder in 1881 or so. Guy likes girl; girl doesn't like guy. Guy kills girl; guy gets hung."

"Anything suggesting a haunting?"

"Not in the paper. I only got through about the last thirty years . . . I'll probably need to come back tomorrow. Unless you want to do the rest of it?"

He shuddered theatrically. "No thanks. Wanna hear what I found out?"

"Shoot."

"The victim – Jess Taylor – had just recently broken up with her boyfriend. Talked to her roommate, Libby. Apparently, Jess and the boyfriend fought, and things got rough."

"He hit her?"

"Not that Libby knew of. But he yelled some pretty nasty things. Libby said she was in her bedroom with her headphones in, and she could still hear them arguing."

"And the restaurant manager?"

"Jess was a perfect employee. Never called in sick, always showed up on time, stayed late to help the kitchen staff clean up sometimes. Everybody liked her."

The Slayer made a skeptical noise, deep in her throat. "Sounds like a saint."

"You got a problem with saints?" he asked, curious.

Faith chuckled without humor. "Everybody's got a dirty little secret, Dean. You, me, your dead waitress included. Some are just bigger than others."

Their eyes met. Slayer and hunter shared a moment of silent understanding.

"So," Faith continued, "we still on for Plan A?"

"You game?"

"Why not? It can't be more boring than research."

* * *

><p>In the words of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce Version 1.0 (Sunnydale, California, circa 1999), glibness was unbecoming in a young lady. Admittedly, Faith was not much of a lady. Nor, for that matter, did she feel particularly young. Two hours into Plan A, however, and she was beginning to admit that Good Ol' Wes might have had a point.<p>

Telling Dean Winchester than Plan A couldn't be boring had not been a good idea. He had taken her bravado at face value and dropped her off at the Accomac Inn with nothing more than a few useless pieces of sarcastic advice. Faith had left her case notes and the two research texts with the hunter, giving him the strict injunction to do some of the reading. Dean laughed and took off for the police station.

Well. Here went nothing. Squaring her shoulders, Faith carefully tugged her black sweater into place and twisted her hair up into a tight bun. She set a pair of tortoiseshell cat eye glasses on her nose – purchased at the local drug store ten minutes previous – and checked her pale pink lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen.

It wasn't her, but it would do. The Slayer inhaled deeply. Monsters were easy; people were hard. But if she could kill monsters, she could charm people. Right? Of course right. She walked confidently into the restaurant and informed the hostess up front that she was looking for a waitressing job. Did she know if they were currently hiring?

Forty-five minutes and a thick ten-page paper application later, she was meeting with the restaurant manager, who lived up to Dean's quick description of him. _James Hirsch, thirty-five, beginnings of a beer belly, tattoos peeking out from beneath his white shirt, smarter than you'd expect._

James Hirsch was indeed smarter than Faith had expected. He appeared stressed, with slight wrinkles around the cuffs of his collared shirt and fine lines stretching across his forehead. The first words out of his mouth, "We don't deal with nonsense here," were supported by the flinty look in his gray eyes. Faith suspected instantly that her usual attitude would be useless.

She hastily ran through her list of female acquaintances, searching for someone to emulate. Either Willow or Fred would babble. None of her Slayerettes were particularly good under pressure, either. Buffy would likely come across as a ditz. So, to her surprise, Faith found herself slipping into the skin of Cordelia Chase: a little more sophisticated, a little more fashion-conscious, a little less sardonic, a little more serious.

Even still, Mr. Hirsch was skeptical of Faith – he didn't believe in things that showed up "in the nick of time" or anything that could ever be construed as "too good to be true." But, he allowed grudgingly, they were rather short-staffed at the moment, and he did not have the luxury of his usual lengthy application and interview process. Several waitresses had called in sick that morning – and for the past three mornings previous, ever since the recent unpleasantness.

"I don't usually do this," he concluded at the end of their interview, gruff tone testifying to his reluctance, "but can you start today? We're that empty-handed."

Faith smiled. "That actually works well. Thank you so much!"

Mr. Hirsch shook his head. "No, it's you who's helping us out. We'll give you some quick on-the -job training, and then you'll be ready to start before the dinner rush comes in. This is just temporary, mind. We'll evaluate your work in a week or so and let you know then if we can keep you on. All right?"

"Sounds fair to me. Um, sir, can I ask you a question first?"

He looked across his desk at her wearily. "Yes, Ms. Lehane?"

The Slayer managed to appear embarrassed. "What time does the shift end tonight? I don't have a car at present, and I'd like to give my ride a heads up."

"The restaurant officially closes at ten, but your shift does not end until eleven o'clock." It was issued as a challenge. "Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. Thanks again, sir. I really appreciate this."

With a sigh, the manager stood and extended his hand for her to shake. "Welcome to the Accomac, Ms. Lehane. Now let's go find Nancy – the senior waitress today – she'll show you around."

Faith took his hand and shook it once. Mr. Hirsch's grip was firm but clammy. She suppressed her own discomfort. Clammy hands didn't mean anything. Even if they did gross her out. Surreptitiously wiping her hands against her dark jeans, she followed the manager out of his office and down the stairs to the main restaurant. One hand on the bannister as she descended, she whipped her phone out of her coat pocket and sent a quick text message.

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135558061**

**Time: 4:15 p.m.**

**Message:**

Got the job. Get off at eleven. Don't be late.

. . .

The reply came back almost instantaneously.

**To: 2135558061**

**From: 7855552575**

**Time: 4:16 p.m.**

**Message:**

Knew you could do it. I'll hit the library when I finish here, go through the rest of the newspaper. Eleven on the dot it is.

. . .

**To: 7855552575**

**From: 2135558061**

**Time: 4:17 p.m.**

**Message:**

Thanks.

. . .

* * *

><p>By the time eleven o'clock finally came, Faith had concluded three things. First, fancy American-style cuisine was confusing and overrated. Second, people sucked at tipping, even at fancy restaurants. Third, everyone at that restaurant, from Nancy the other waitress to Jack the sous chef to Phoebe the hostess, appeared to be on happy pills. Like, prescription-strength happy pills. And that, she thought, saying goodbye to Mr. Hirsch for the evening, was deeply suspicious.<p>

She stuck her head into the kitchen to tell the cooking staff good night and was handed a heavy styrofoam container full of leftovers for her trouble. The Slayer called a cheerful "goodnight" over her shoulder as she stepped outside into the cold night. Her eyes darted across the parking lot, scanning the darkened vehicles for a familiar outline. When they lit on Dean's black muscle car, she exhaled in relief. It had been a frakking long day.

"Honey, I'm home."

Dean narrowed in on the to-go box in her hands. "Faith, the sexy librarian, bringing home the bacon?"

"I think it's Thai meatballs? And an Asian pear salad?"

The hunter blinked. "Pears come in Asian? What the hell?"

"Dunno. Guess we'll find out." Faith buckled her seatbelt. "How was the library, dear?"

"Ha." Taking the cue, Dean backed the Impala out of the parking lot and headed for their motel. "Took me three hours. Scanned the whole backlog of the newspaper. No similar murders except for the three you already found."

"So. We're back to square one. It could be a serial killer."

He hesitated. "Maybe. Lemme show you the case files when we get back."

Faith groaned. "Dean. They want me here at nine tomorrow morning for more training… and they want me to work a double."

"Sounds like you're hitting it off well."

She made a non-committal noise. "People tip like sh-t here."

"And that surprises you?" he scoffed. "Wake up, Faithy. It's a brave new world."

"Don't call me that."

"O-kay. Thanks for your notes, by the way. They're really good."

But Faith didn't feel like playing tonight. The rest of the drive back was made in silence. She ignored his attempt to make nice – putting a Kansas cassette into the tape deck – by turning her face to the window. When they arrived at the motel, the Slayer walked ahead of him into their room, shutting the door behind her and leaving Dean to fumble for his own room key.

She didn't like being called "Faithy." It was one of Angelus's little pet names, and whenever she heard it, _he _was suddenly present. Cold, dark eyes watching her, freezing her to the bone. Teeth ripping into her skin, simultaneously stabbing and burning. _That_ had been real enough, and it was horrid.

Even worse were the things that had only happened in her dreams. Angelus had made enough suggestive comments to populate a century's worth of nightmares. And Faith's imagination seemed determined to ensure she experienced every one of them.

Tortured by a psychopath? Check. Raped to death? Check. Turned into a vampire? Check. Waking up in a black silk lined coffin and clawing her way out? Check. Looking in the mirror to not see her face? Check.

Being a four-year-old and watching her mother be murdered by Angelus? Check. Stuck in another hospital coma, able to listen and think but unable to communicate, while Angelus sat by her bed and confided his horrific plans for everyone she had ever cared about before slitting her wrist – just the one – and slowly draining her dry, completely unnoticed by the hospital staff? Check, check, check.

Slamming the styrofoam container on the table, Faith headed for the bathroom and locked the door. She spun the shower dial as hot as it would go and started undressing, leaving her clothes in a pile by the sink. She yanked the bobby pins from her bun and tossed them, one by one, onto the counter. Each quiet little _ping_ did something to relieve the tension in her stomach.

What the _hell_ had just come over her? Her heart raced, her eyes burned, her hands shook. Just a nickname could do this to her. A stupid frakking nickname, and now she was reduced to this, jonesing for a cigarette, or a fight – or worse.

The knock came, as she had expected. Three short, sharp raps. "Faith. You okay in there?"

"Go away, Dean."

"Whatever it was that I said, I'm sorry."

She choked back the diatribe blossoming on the tip of her tongue. Words born of fear and frustration, of anger and feeling trapped, would only make things worse. "It's fine, Dean," she said through the particleboard door. Faith braced it with one shoulder, just in case. "It's been a long day. We can talk about the case tomorrow."

"Faith – "

"I'm taking a shower," she announced, although the sound of running water made it unnecessary. "I smell like kitchen grease. You should eat the leftovers; I can't look a Thai meatball in the face right now."

A short pause followed, while she removed the final bobby pin and ran shaky hands through her thick brown hair. She listened to the muffled sounds of footsteps moving away and then back again.

"Do you want your pajamas?"

The offer broke the tension within. Faith felt something snap, like a rubber band finally stretched beyond its capacity, and she leaned her head back against the door. When she spoke, her voice was resigned, exhausted. "Can you slide them under?"

"Sure." The corner of a pair of plaid pants slowly came into view through the thin aperture between the linoleum and the particleboard. Faith tugged them the rest of the way through, and then her T-shirt. Another moment of silence commenced, punctuated only by the shower and Dean's rhythmic breathing.

"Thanks."

"I'll see if I can find something on the TV. You like monster movies?"

She waited until the urge to laugh hysterically passed. "Sure. I'll see you in a minute."

"Okay." The quiet noise of him walking away. Then the television came on, loud and harsh.

Faith stepped into the shower and let the scalding water course over her skin, washing away the grime of the restaurant. Maybe, if she stayed in here long enough, the shower would wash away her, too.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks to all those of you who are following this story of mine. Any guesses as to the end result of this little adventure? Is it a ghost or a serial killer? Also, I am looking to improve my writing and would really appreciate feedback.

'Til next time,  
>AiH<p> 


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